


Light the Spark

by dr_girlfriend



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brief Mention of Potential Noncon (re Hydra), Deaf Character, Deaf Clint Barton, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Gonna Tag Every Sex Act Just Trust Me There's Plenty, POV Clint Barton, Platonic Cuddling, Self-Esteem Issues, Sharing a Bed, Single POV, civil war never happened, fraction/aja Clint Barton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:47:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25826905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dr_girlfriend/pseuds/dr_girlfriend
Summary: Excerpt:“You’re a fuckin’genius, Barnes!”“Huh?”  Barnes is still focused on petting Lucky, and Clint can’t help but think it’s a little bit adorable how much Barnes likes his dog.“I’ll just bringyouto the thing with me, as my plus one!  They didn’t ask who we were bringing, and your security clearance is sure as hell just as high as mine is, so you don’t need to get cleared in advance.  Can you imagine their faces when you show up anyway after they specifically gave you the cold shoulder?”Barnes is quiet for a long minute.  “You want me to be your date to this thing?” he finally says, just as Clint is taking another swig of coffee.Clint chokes, sputtering as half the coffee dribbles down his chin.  He wipes it off with the sleeve of his sweatshirt.“Not — I mean — I’m not tryin’ to —” Barnes is just watching him flounder, his expression unreadable.  “— I meant, like — apretenddate.  So that they have to let you in.”
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton, Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanov
Comments: 183
Kudos: 818
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020





	1. Clear the Ground

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kangofu_CB](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangofu_CB/gifts).



> So, this weekend I was talking to flawedamythyst about how I'd like to start posting this on Kangofu_CB's birthday, and I was all like, "I think it's sometime in September?" and she was like, "Actually, it's Monday."
> 
> SO, happy birthday CB! Here's the first chapter of your Fandom Trumps Hate auction fic, and I'll be posting a chapter a week every Monday until it's done.
> 
> Super duper thanks to flawedamythyst for the emergency beta, and to hawksonfire for answering a million questions about Mario Kart.
> 
> If smut is not your thing, the first four chapters and most of chapter five is all fluff. After that it's Smut City. Feel free to reach out to me on Tumblr (drgrlfriend.tumblr.com) if you need any more details about the tags.

* * *

“Cap, you got a ‘bot on your six, but I got it covered.”

Goddamn Doombots. Clint is out of EMP arrows, but an armor-piercing one should do the trick if he gets it in the main circuitry panel. The second his quiver clicks over he’s got the arrow drawn and nocked, and —

**_BLAM!!_ **

The report of the rifle sends his combination hearing aid and comm into a wild screech before it settles into a blare of static, and he’s turning and firing the arrow in the second before his brain processes the cold slate-blue eyes and lanky hair.

_“Fuck!”_ Clint yells, mostly feeling the word in his chest as he tears the now-useless comm from his ear.

Barnes stands there impassively, the shaft of the arrow gripped tight in his metal hand. The point of the arrow is millimeters away from the Kevlar over his heart. 

_Armor-piercing arrow_ , Clint thinks, and his stomach churns at the thought of what could have happened if Barnes had been just a millisecond slower.

The fear transmutes to anger, propelling Clint forward. He shoves Barnes’ shoulder. 

“I _had_ it,” he yells.

And, fucking _ouch_ , he’s dumb enough in his anger to have hit the metal one, and now the heel of his grip hand is stinging like hell.

Barnes’ solid frame doesn’t give an inch but his metal hand spasms, snapping the arrow shaft in two, and Clint’s anger spikes higher. That was a perfectly good arrow, goddammit, and —

Barnes’ head turns just a fraction, and his eyes flick to Cap’s position. 

“Affirmative,” Clint reads on his lips, and without another glance at Clint he turns and walks away.

Clint just stands there, dumbfounded. 

* * *

Clint is stowing his gear in the quinjet lockers when Nat taps him on the shoulder. He’s still prickly, but the scowl melts from his face as she shoves a familiar battered case in his hands.

[you] [amazing] he signs, and she bumps him affectionately with her shoulder as she passes him on her way to the cockpit.

He opens the case and pulls out his trusty purple BTEs, looping them on and pressing the earmolds in place as the sounds of the world rush back in.

He pulls the damaged comms out of his pocket and puts them in the case, zipping it into one of the pockets of his tac pants. Tony’ll be only too happy to work on the modulation a little more, as long as Clint doesn’t accidentally send them through the wash.

The back door of the quinjet opens and Cap comes in, followed by Barnes. Clint sees Barnes’ eyes flick to the BTEs and his anger flares again. He pointedly turns his back on them, making his way to the front and settling into the co-pilot’s seat. 

Nat spares him a sideways glance, but wisely leaves him alone to stew.

* * *

They take their usual positions in the debriefing room — Cap at the head of the table with Barnes on his left and Nat on his right, Clint next to Nat and Tony at the opposite end where he can roll his chair around without bothering anyone. Wilson is back in D.C., Scott is visiting Cassie, Thor is off-world, and Banner is in the lab, so there’s plenty of room to spread out, and no one says a word as Clint thunks his bow down on the table.

“Oh, bagels!” Clint says, and then scowls again as Barnes sweeps the only egg bagel off the plate, face impassive as he bites a chunk out of it.

Clint resists the urge to stick his tongue out at him, grabbing a rye bagel for Nat and a plain one for himself. He smothers his bagel in cream cheese, shoving half of it in his mouth at once as Cap starts to break down the latest episode of ‘Victor Von Doom is an Asshole.’

Clint is mostly tuned out, wondering what toppings he should get on the pizza he’s gonna order for second breakfast, when Cap says, “JARVIS, replay footage of the roof in the northwest corner, starting at 09:23.”

Clint jolts upright, the front legs of his chair thunking to the floor. He shoots a glance at Barnes. A slight twitch of the muscle in his jaw is the only sign that he even registered Cap’s command.

They watch the footage in silence — Clint’s draw, Barnes’ shot, and then Clint releasing the arrow directly at Barnes. Clint feels humiliation rising hot in his cheeks. He had startled like a fucking gazelle, and had damn near killed his teammate.

Cap lets the footage play on, showing Clint stalking toward Barnes, the shove to his shoulder that doesn’t even budge Barnes an inch. It’s mortifyingly apparent that Clint fucking _lost_ it, and now it’s playing on the giant screen for the whole team to see. Cap only hits pause when the Barnes on the screen starts to turn.

“Anyone want to tell me what happened there?” Cap says, his voice deceptively mild but his eyes flashing as he looks first to Barnes and then to Clint.

They both stay stubbornly silent. Tony opens his mouth as though he’s about to make a smart remark, but then seems to read the room and snaps it closed again, swiveling his chair from side to side.

“Goddammit,” Steve barks suddenly, smacking the table with his palm, and Clint tenses his muscles hard to smother his instinctive flinch. “I feel like we have this conversation every damn time, and I don’t know why it isn’t sinking in. We. Are. A. _Team._ ”

Cap shoves to his feet, pivoting restlessly before leaning forward, palms on the table. “Being on a team means you communicate your position,” he says, focusing his attention on Barnes. “Being on a team means you _trust_ each other,” he says, now glaring at Barnes and Clint in equal measure. “And being on a team means you _don’t shoot your teammate in the heart_ ,” he ends, with a hard look at Clint.

Clint swallows the lump in this throat. He can feel a hot flush spreading up his face. _You’ve disappointed Captain America, you worthless piece of shit_ , that little voice in his head says.

Nat’s hand comes to rest on his forearm, but he can’t look at her. He can’t look at anyone.

“Soldier and Hawkeye, you’re doing joint exercises on the range at 1400,” Cap says, and fuck, he’s _really_ mad if he’s using their call signs outside of a mission. “Work this out. Dismissed.”

Clint is on his feet and out the door in moments, his bow in his hand. He’s gonna order some pizza, curl up with Lucky, and just make the world go away for a little while.

* * *

He reports to the range at 1400 as ordered, because he’s a fucking _professional_ , but he doesn’t pretend to be happy about it.

Barnes is already there, firing his Škorpion, but he stops and lowers the weapon when Clint enters.

They regard each other warily for a moment. Then Barnes puts the weapon down and moves forward.

Clint shifts into a fighting stance and Barnes halts a few paces away.

“I apologize,” Barnes says stiffly. 

Clint forces his posture to relax a fraction.

“I was not aware of the limitations of your devices,” Barnes adds, like a fuckin’ _asshole_ , and all of Clint’s anger comes rushing back.

“You don’t need to talk about my fuckin’ _devices_ ,” Clint spits. “Firin’ that close, you coulda deafened any one of us.”

He expects Barnes to push back, but instead the man seems to shrink into himself, his shoulders hunching just a fraction, his eyes dropping.

“Yes,” he agrees, to Clint’s surprise. “I understand. I am —” He appears to struggle with formulating the words for a moment, and Clint waits it out cautiously. These glitches never happen on missions, but he’s seen it a few times when Barnes is off duty. To be honest, Clint has pretty much avoided interacting with Barnes since he got to the Tower, but that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t watch him.

“Блядь,” Barnes mumbles. There’s something a little humanizing about it. “I — I am still adjusting to working on a team, and even when —” He hesitates, and then lifts his chin as if he’s bracing himself for something. “Even when I was Bucky Barnes, I was the only sniper on the team.”

Clint bites his lip, thinking it over. That...actually makes a lot of sense. Clint has some idea how the Howling Commandos operated, and the Winter Soldier was definitely not legendary for his teamwork. 

Clint lets the words _‘Even when I was Bucky Barnes’_ wash past him, because that — that’s just one of the many reasons he’s been avoiding Barnes. Clint has crammed what happened with Loki deep down in the back of his mind, and watching Barnes grapple with his own mind control issues has an uncomfortable tendency to dredge it all back up again.

Not to mention that the Soldier put a bullet through Nat, and Clint is still sorting out how he feels about that even though Nat seems to consider it water under the bridge.

All that baggage aside, though, Barnes seems to be sincere, and God knows Clint fucks up often enough to know the value of an apology gracefully accepted.

“I’m sorry I shot you,” he finally offers in return, and Barnes nods.

And now they’re just looking at each other again, as the silence stretches on uncomfortably. 

“So...how do we solve this?” Clint eventually says, mostly just to break the tension.

Barnes seems relieved. He runs a hand through his hair, and then gathers it back absent-mindedly, snapping an elastic around it. “Your file indicates you have experience working on sniper teams. What would you suggest?” 

“Huh.” Clint always figured that the team members who don’t know him as well considered him to be kind of a blockhead. He’s not mad about it — he long ago learned the value of being underestimated and he can’t blame people for believing in a persona he’s carefully cultivated — but he’s a little surprised that Barnes is even asking.

Clint gives himself a moment to think. To be honest, they should have worked this out well before they ever went on missions together. Reading each other’s files isn’t enough to work together smoothly as a team and Clint has been off on SHIELD missions too often to consistently train with Barnes.

“I’ve seen a little of your shooting, but usually I’m too focused on missions to really take it in,” Clint muses. “Let’s get a sense of your favored weapons and your range, and we can go from there,” he suggests.

Barnes suddenly smiles, a sharp grin that Clint has previously only seen in black and white newsreels, and the switch from Winter Soldier to Bucky Barnes is so instantaneous that it makes Clint blink. Barnes’ whole posture has changed, loose and easy as he pulls an M249 SAW from the locker, and when he speaks his voice is pure Brooklyn.

“You ain’t seen _nothin’_ yet.”

* * *

Things get easier between them after that. Clint can’t help but be impressed by Barnes’ incredible marksmanship, and he doesn’t mind showing off for Barnes as well, warmth spiking through him whenever he earns a low whistle of admiration. He discovers to his delight that Barnes is fluent in sign, allowing them to communicate without issue while wearing ear protection on the range.

Training together becomes a regular thing, and when Cap remarks on their improved teamwork during the next mission Clint can’t help but feel proud. He shoots Barnes a sidelong glance and can tell he feels the same way. Then one day Barnes suggests sparring, and they add that to their weekly routine, with the other Avengers sometimes watching and sometimes joining in.

It makes Clint’s head spin — how he can predict Barnes’ moves at times because Barnes trained Nat and Nat trained Clint. They each have their own styles, though — Nat graceful and vicious, Barnes all leashed power, and Clint holding his own with sheer reach and circus flexibility.

The more time Clint spends with Barnes, the more he gets used to the way his accent and posture changes from moment to moment and the offhand references to his different personas. 

After Clint thinks about it awhile he realizes that all the Avengers are chimeras in their own way. Banner is the most obvious, what with the Other Guy and all, but Clint was also able over time to reconcile patriotic icon Captain America with mouthy Socialist punk Steve Rogers, and arrogant billionaire-playboy-philanthropist Tony Stark with the _real_ Tony, who is basically an insecure mechanics nerd with ADHD. The deadly assassin Black Widow regularly sprawls across Clint’s couch, listening to podcasts while they paint each other’s toenails, and Thor is both a legendary God from another realm _and_ a guy who occasionally hangs around the common lounge in sweatpants eating Pop Tarts and watching _America’s Got Talent_.

So the more he gets to know Barnes, the less bothered he is by the way he fluctuates from moment to moment between Bucky Barnes and the Winter Soldier, or some nebulous in-between. 

* * *

A couple of weeks later Clint wakes up with a scream trapped behind his gritted teeth. He’d been giving Loki information, only too happy to help, delighted to serve his _Master_.

He rolls to sitting, kicking free from the tangle of sheets. His t-shirt is stuck to his body with sweat, every muscle aching with the sudden release of tension. Bile rushes up the back of his throat and he breathes in short sharp pants to keep from vomiting.

When his stomach finally subsides he makes his way to the bathroom, flipping on the lights. Long ago he had changed every bulb in his Tower rooms to Edison bulbs. Tony laughed at him for his ‘millennial aesthetic’, but Nat only shot him a knowing glance. At times like these, the warm, yellow light is a welcome contrast to the endless icy blue he sees when he closes his eyes.

He gets in the shower, turning it so hot that it makes his skin prickle, but the chill remains.

Clint gets out of the shower and makes his way to his kitchen, cursing when he realizes he finished the last of the coffee grounds yesterday. Lucky is asleep so Clint leaves him be, pressing his aids in place and making his way to the communal kitchen on his own. He’s got the coffee pot started and is vacantly watching it brew when he registers a shadowy figure in his periphery.

“Jesus _fuck_ , Barnes!” he exclaims when his heart has settled back into his body.

The figure in the doorway melts from the Soldier’s uncanny stillness to Barnes’ lazy prowl as he wordlessly slides by Clint, reaching past him to pull his own mug from the cupboard.

When the coffee’s done brewing, Clint fills Barnes’ mug and then protectively pulls the rest of the coffee pot to his chest.

Barnes rolls his eyes but then spoons enough sugar into his coffee that he has no cause to be judging Clint’s taste. Glass houses, and all that.

Clint takes a sip from the spout of the coffee pot, ignoring the burn of the too-hot coffee across his tongue. 

Barnes just leans against the cabinets opposite and watches him. Clint realizes that this may be the first time he’s been alone with Barnes outside the range or gym. Barnes seems to keep to himself when he’s in the Tower, and Clint does the same, so aside from the occasional briefing or group dinner they don’t see each other much outside of training sessions.

But now Clint knows that Barnes likes his coffee tooth-rottingly sweet, and he finds himself wanting to know a little more about him.

Starting with the most important things. “Do you watch _Dog Cops?_ ”

* * *

That becomes a thing too, after that; the two of them meeting up a night or two a week to stare mindlessly at the television together. 

Clint doesn’t know if Barnes has insomnia and nightmares as well, or if he just hears Clint up and decides to join him. Either way it’s rare these days for Clint to come out to the common lounge at ass o’clock in the morning, jittery and nauseous from his latest nightmare, and _not_ find the coffee pot already brewing and _Dog Cops_ cued up on Netflix.

And Clint isn’t imagining it — he’s sure now that in these moments Barnes is as relaxed as he ever gets, his voice almost always the slow Brooklyn drawl, his solid frame decked out in soft t-shirts and sleep pants, his hair in a messy bun. He’s been letting his beard grow in a little lately, and it’s a good look. 

They sit closer on the couch every time, too, and if anyone had told Clint a few months ago that he’d be practically having slumber parties with the Winter Soldier, the man a comforting line of warmth all down Clint’s side, he’d have said they were crazy.

They make it through all five seasons of _Dog Cops_ in a couple of weeks and start _The Great British Bake Off_. Then Barnes makes an offhand comment about _computers these days_ , and Clint introduces him to the wide world of videogames. They get so loud one night that they wake up Tony, who emerges from the elevator bleary-eyed and complaining before playing as Luigi and creaming them both through his devastating use of blue shells.


	2. Lay the Kindling

_“Agent Barton. Captain Rogers has requested that all of the Avengers join him in the briefing room at 1900 hours,”_ JARVIS says.

Clint groans. He just got back from the gym, and had planned on showering and then taking Lucky for a nice long walk. The weather was beautiful today, a perfect spring day.

“What for?” 

_“I am afraid Captain Rogers did not share any further details with me, sir.”_

When Clint gets to the briefing room everyone seems as mystified as he is. The whole gang is here, even Lang and Wilson and Thor — everyone except Steve. Then a couple of trays of food are delivered, and Tony, Nat, and Banner groan as the caterer uncovers them.

“I don’t understand,” Thor says in his booming voice. “Is this not the Midgardian delicacy of ‘shawarma’? It is delicious!”

“Shawarma means bad news,” Nat explains. “Steve thinks it’ll remind us all of bonding after the Battle of New York and we’ll give him less of a hard time about whatever garbage mission he’s about to give us.”

Thor shrugs and fills his plate, and the others follow his lead.

“What do you think it is this time?” Sam asks. “Moloids again? Because those mole people were the _worst_. Creepy little fuckers.”

“Maybe it’s a team-up,” Tony suggests. He’s already made a teepee out of some forks and is trying to get a spoon to balance on top. “But let me tell you, if I have to hang out with that blowhard Richards again —”

The door opens and they all fall silent as Cap comes in. 

“I’m glad everyone could make it,” he starts. “We’ve been called upon to engage in a — a diplomatic mission of sorts.”

Everyone groans, and a piece of flatbread sails towards Steve’s head. He just dodges it and gives them all a hard glare.

 _“As I was saying,”_ he enunciates, “The United Nations would like to honor the Avengers for our efforts with an event. It’s next weekend —” He ignores another chorus of groans “— and it’ll be _all_ weekend, starting with a reception Friday night and ending with some fancy garden party Saturday evening and brunch the next morning. Attendance is _mandatory_.”

“Can’t _you_ just go?” Banner tries. “I mean, Captain America is the one they really want to see anyway.”

“They are honoring the team, and we will be going as a _team_ ,” Cap says firmly.

“I don’t get it,” Scott asks the room at large. “What’s the problem? Fancy food, free booze — sounds like a sweet deal to me?”

The whole room scoffs at his naiveté.

“Politicians,” Clint explains.

“Entitled billionaires,” Natasha adds, her voice thick with disgust.

“Hey!” Tony protests, but subsides at the look Nat gives him.

“They do...get a little handsy at times,” Steve acknowledges, his ears turning red. “But this is an important step to repairing our reputation on the worldwide stage following our refusal to sign the Accords — it’s an olive branch, and we are all going to be on our best behavior.” He shoots a glance at Natasha. “No broken fingers,” he specifies. She winks at him and he blushes, clearing his throat. 

Personally, Clint thinks that guy at the last gala who had the nerve to get handsy with the Black Widow was _lucky_ to get away with just a few broken fingers, but he keeps his opinions to himself.

“What the hell do we wear to somethin’ like that?” Barnes asks.

Clint can’t figure Cap’s reaction to the question. His jaw tenses, and he straightens up. “Buck,” he says softly, looking down at the table, but then he doesn’t say anything more.

Barnes’ face shutters, the Winter Soldier’s blank expression coming to the forefront so quickly that Clint’s stomach dips. 

Clint looks around the table. Nat has her lips pressed together, but looks resigned. Tony is swiveling his chair, deliberately not looking at anyone. Wilson and Lang just look sad. Thor’s brow is furrowed and Banner is taking slow deep breaths, looking a little green around the edges.

“What?” Clint says, feeling like a moron. “What’s goin’ on?”

“It’s fine,” Barnes says in that mechanical, Russian-accented voice he sometimes gets on missions. “I am not invited.”

“What?” Clint looks around the table, sure that there’s some mistake. He expects a clamor of protests, but everyone else is silent. “That’s bullshit, of _course_ you’re invited. They’re honoring the Avengers, aren’t they? Well, you’re an Avenger. End of story.”

He crosses his arms and leans back in his chair.

“It’s not that simple,” Cap starts, and his placating tone gets right under Clint’s skin. Where the hell is Steve Rogers, who never passes up the chance at a fight?

“It _is_ that simple,” Clint says heatedly. “What happened to all that — was that all bullshit? All that ‘We’re a team, and they’re honoring us as a team’ stuff you just said?”

“We _are_ a team, Clint,” Cap bites out. “And everything that happens _here_ reflects that. But at the U.N. — well, we have to be sensitive to the fact that —”

And Clint gets what this is now. This is the noble, self-sacrificing part of Steve, but he’s not sacrificing himself this time, is he? He’s sacrificing _Barnes_ , and that’s just — that’s just _not cool_. Anger roils through Clint like a thunderstorm, the violent rage that is the curse of Barton men and that he tries so hard to never show.

“ _Barnes_ is a sensitive issue?” he barks, shoving to his feet. “What about _me?_ All the lives _I_ took? How about the fact that I almost took down a helicarrier? That without the iridium I got him —” the words are spilling out now, a helpless babble, and yet he still can’t bring himself to say Loki’s name “— if I hadn’t just given him every fuckin’ thing he _asked_ for, every part of me he wanted —”

“Воробышек,” Nat says, putting her hand on Clint’s arm, and he bites down hard on whatever else he was going to say.

Barnes stands up. He doesn’t look angry, or sad. He doesn’t look _anything_. He nods at Cap and then leaves the room.

Shit. Clint probably just made the whole thing worse, didn’t he? He wants to follow Barnes, but Nat’s grip on his forearm is uncompromising, and she exerts gentle pressure downwards, guiding him back to his seat. 

He sits down, scowling at the tabletop.

Cap sighs. There’s a long, awkward moment of silence, and then he clears his throat and starts again. “Invitations will be sent to your screens. If your plus one doesn’t already have their security clearances in order, contact Maria Hill, she’ll make sure they are expedited.”

Clint looks up in time to see Cap cast a shy glance at Nat from beneath his eyelashes. Is Cap finally gonna ask her out? At any other moment he’d be happy at the thought of them ending their incredibly awkward and prolonged pattern of dancing around each other, but right now he’s not feeling too charitably disposed to Cap. Maybe Nat could do better.

“Dismissed,” Cap says, and Clint wastes no time escaping the situation. 

He’s still tempted to go find Barnes, but they don’t really work that way. Barnes always finds _Clint_ , and Clint doesn’t want to crowd him, especially after his outburst.

* * *

Loki presses the scepter to his chest. 

_“You have heart,”_ he says, just as he always does. 

But this time, he doesn’t stop. He keeps pressing, the point of the scepter piercing Clint’s chest, driving him backward. Clint falls, coming to an abrupt stop in what looks like a dentist’s chair. He’s not sure what’s happening until the restraints come down, metal shackles binding his arms and legs. The apparatus descends from the ceiling, an electric halo that presses against Clint’s temples. Loki is shoving a rubber mouthguard between Clint’s teeth, and Clint suddenly knows what this is. He’s seen this abomination in security footage, they’re going to do to him what they did to Barnes, they are going to wipe his mind, and the scepter is scrabbling at his chest —

He jolts upright so quickly he falls right out of bed. Lucky skitters away and Clint looks down and finds his t-shirt snagged from where Lucky had been pawing at him, trying to wake him.

“Good dog,” he croaks.

He gives himself a few moments to breathe deeply and then forces himself upright.

* * *

Lucky pads softly after him as he leaves his room, and Clint rumples his ear in the elevator, hating how his fucking nightmares leave even Lucky insecure and skittish. 

Clint’s not sure what to expect but the coffee is brewing just as usual, and Barnes has Mario Kart set up, so maybe Clint hasn’t fucked this up entirely.

He pours a mug for Barnes, adding the ridiculous amount of sugar he likes, and then brings the mug and the coffee pot into the common lounge. 

He sits on the couch, Lucky jumping up beside him, and grabs his controller. Maybe Barnes just wants to pretend like the whole thing didn’t happen. Clint can do that. He can do that, no problem.

“I mean, it’s just _bullshit_ , is what it is,” Clint’s mouth says without his permission while Barnes is still picking the track.

Barnes chooses Bowser’s Castle, and then turns his head to Clint with an eyebrow raised.

Clint takes a sip from the spout of the coffee pot, valiantly trying to pretend like he hadn’t said anything.

Barnes waits him out for the tour of the track, while Clint stares fixedly at the screen.

 _3...2...1..._ the game beeps, and then Barnes hits pause.

He puts down his controller and turns his whole body toward Clint, those steel-grey eyes flickering over his face, and Clint can’t keep the words behind his gritted teeth any longer.

“It’s just —” he starts, dropping his own controller to rub a hand on the back of his neck. His hair is still damp from the shower. “— I just don’t understand why Rogers doesn’t see the fuckin’ _hypocrisy_ of it. Any fuckin’ General or Chancellor or Prime Minister in that place is gonna have a string of bodies in their wake, and they weren’t even bein’ controlled by fuckin’ _Hydra_. Not to mention the rest of us — I mean, not even what I did when — when _he_ had me, but — even before that — ‘cause Strike Team Delta wasn’t exactly the Babysitter’s Club. Not to mention Hulk, and Widow, and — hell, even _Tony’s_ got corpses stacked up in his history starting with the Ten Rings…”

He loses steam. Barnes’ expression hasn’t changed an iota, and Clint suddenly feels exposed under that searching gaze.

“It just doesn’t make any sense, is what I’m sayin’,” he ends feebly. “If anything, you’re the best of all ‘a us.” He takes another sip from the coffee pot’s spout mostly to avoid Barnes’ eyes, and then picks up the controller again. 

He can feel his face flushing hot. Barnes still hasn’t unpaused the game.

After a few more awkward seconds Barnes turns to face forward again. “I can understand why they don’t want me there,” he says softly. “But I appreciate you stickin’ up for me all the same.”

Clint opens his mouth but before he can say anything Barnes unpauses the game and then they’re in it, ruthlessly jockeying for position. Barnes gets Clint with a Koopa shell just before the finish line, eking out a victory.

It’s Clint’s turn to pick the track next, and he clicks through, not sure which one will suit his mood.

“I can’t believe I have to go play nice with those blowhards,” he grumbles. “I should take Lucky as my plus one. Think I can teach him to pee on somebody’s leg on command by Friday?”

“Sure you could,” Barnes says easily, reaching over Clint to give Lucky some ear scritches. “What’s a plus one?”

“Y’know, when you get invited somewhere and you can bring a date? The invite is for you plus one person, so they call it a ‘plus one’. Steve said if our plus ones aren’t already cleared Hill will —” Clint freezes, turning to face Barnes. “You’re a fuckin’ _genius_ , Barnes!”

“Huh?” Barnes is still focused on petting Lucky, and Clint can’t help but think it’s a little bit adorable how much Barnes likes his dog.

“I’ll just bring _you_ to the thing with me, as my plus one! They didn’t ask who we were bringing, and your security clearance is sure as hell just as high as mine is, so you don’t need to get cleared in advance. Can you imagine their faces when you show up anyway after they specifically gave you the cold shoulder?”

Barnes is quiet for a long minute. “You want me to be your date to this thing?” he finally says, just as Clint is taking another swig of coffee.

Clint chokes, sputtering as half the coffee dribbles down his chin. He wipes it off with the sleeve of his sweatshirt.

“Not — I mean — I’m not tryin’ to —” Barnes is just watching him flounder, his expression unreadable. “— I meant, like — a _pretend_ date. So that they have to let you in.”

“Oh.” Barnes chews on his lip a little. “You don’t mind people thinkin’ you’re stepping out with a guy?”

 _“Me?”_ Clint suddenly realizes anew that Barnes was born in 1917. Shit. “Um, no, I mean, I’m bi. Bisexual,” he clarifies, as Barnes continues to look thoughtful. “I thought most people knew that? Leastways I haven’t tried real hard to hide it, not for the last couple decades or so.” 

Barnes’ lips move almost imperceptibly, and it’s only because Clint is so experienced at lip-reading that he realizes Barnes is repeating that word, ‘bisexual.’ He forgets sometimes — as much as they make fun of Steve, he’s pretty up-to-speed on modern culture. But then Steve wasn’t having his brain fried on a regular basis over the last seven decades.

“Bisexual means you like guys and gals the same, then?” 

“Well — I guess it’s different for everyone, but it means you like ‘em both. Or pretty much any gender, people call that pansexual sometimes, but that’s kinda newer. For me, it’s about 80-20 guys over girls, but some people are closer to 50-50 I guess —” Clint realizes he’s babbling again, and he bites down on his tongue. “Anyway, it was just an idea. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he adds. 

“Uncomfortable?” Barnes’ confusion is clear on his face. “No, it’s just that — I think maybe that’s the way I am. Or at least was, before, y’know.” Barnes gestures to his arm in a way that seems to encompass all of the various Hydra fuckery he’s endured. “Made time with guys and gals. Took the gal dancin’ but then met the guy later that night, y’know?”

“Huh,” Clint says. That’s something that never made the newsreels or biographies, but he guesses it wouldn’t have. _Met the guy later that night_ echoes in his head and he forces himself to talk before his mind can wander too far down that road.

“So then...you wanna? It would serve ‘em right actin’ the way they did.”

“Stevie’s gonna flip his lid,” Barnes muses.

“Oh. Well I don’t wanna cause any problems between you two —”

“Nah,” Barnes interrupts. An expression crosses his face that Clint has never seen before — it’s a grin that’s pure mischief, sharp and devastating. “That’s a _bonus_.”

And Clint can’t help his laughter. It starts with a giggle but soon he’s rolling on the floor, shaking with it, Lucky yipping excitedly. 

It’s part relief that he hasn’t offended Barnes or screwed things up with him — he cares about that more than he’s willing to acknowledge, even to himself. The rest of it might just be anticipation — he _likes_ Barnes, and this whole weekend is looking to be a lot more fun if he has Barnes at his side for it. Sticking it to those U.N. hypocrites, and Steve for that matter, is just icing on the cake.

By the time he manages to regain his composure Barnes is patting him on the back, looking a little concerned. And, yeah, maybe there was a hysterical edge to some of that, after the nightmare Clint just had, but it felt fucking awesome. He feels drained now, but in a good way, emptied out of all the uncertainty and dread that had been churning in his gut.

Barnes pulls him back up on the couch as Clint wipes tears from his eyes.

“So it’s a deal, then?” Clint finally says. “Fake boyfriends?”

“Fake boyfriends,” Barnes agrees, shaking Clint’s hand.

They play another round of Mario Kart before something occurs to Clint. “Oh, hey — I probably can’t call you Barnes anymore if you’re supposed to be my boyfriend, huh? What should I call you?”

“Whaddaya mean?” Barnes asks, still picking a track.

“Well, I mean I know that Steve calls you Bucky, but is that what you want _me_ to call you?”

“Oh.” Barnes looks a little taken aback, and Clint wonders if he screwed up again, bringing up his identity issues. But then Barnes smiles, soft and warm.

“Nobody’s ever asked me that,” he finally says. “But I think maybe James feels right to me.”

“Okay. _James_ ,” Clint says, practicing a little, signing it along with the word. He likes it. “Anything else I should know? Allergies, likes, dislikes, that kind of thing? And maybe we should have a —” Clint stops himself before he can say _‘safeword’_ and make this whole thing sound creepy and sexual “— a code word we can use if the other person is making them uncomfortable. Y’know, like, I don’t think we have to kiss in public or anything, everyone has their own feelings about PDA, but I don’t wanna do anything that weirds you out, y’know?”

Barnes doesn’t seem to know where to start with that one. “What’s PDA?” he finally settles on.

“Oh. It’s short for Public Displays of Affection,” Clint says, his hand automatically fingerspelling [p] [d] [a] as he says it. "Y’know, like kissing, hugging. Even like pet names and stuff I guess.”

“Oh.” Clint waits a little longer but Barnes — _James_ , he corrects himself in his head — doesn’t say anything else. Clint snickers a little in his head as he chooses Rainbow Road. They play another round — this time Clint manages to knock James into a banana peel, sending him careening off the edge.

He throws up his arms, crowing in victory, and James gives him a shove.

“I don’t have any allergies,” James says after a few moments skimming through the tracks, and it takes Clint a minute to map the conversation back onto everything he had blurted out before the last round. “And a code word makes sense, I guess.”

“Got one in mind?”

James hums thoughtfully. He’s skimming through some of the custom tracks Tony downloaded for them, and he stops on Orange Loop.

“How about ‘orange’?”

“Orange?” Clint repeats, signing it as he says it, a squeeze of his hand from a c into an s shape in front of his mouth.

James shrugs. “Not likely to come up on its own, but not too hard to work into a conversation.”

“Oh. Yeah. That’s smart.” Clint was still thinking of safewords, where it’s not likely anyone would actually be listening. 

“But — I guess, as long as you don’t surprise me, I don’t mind bein’ close, even hugging, or whatever,” James adds. “I kind of —” he ducks his head — “I kinda think I’d like it.”

“Oh yeah?” Clint tries to play it cool, but something in his chest flutters with excitement. He’d thought that he was the only one who enjoyed the physical closeness, having James warm at his side on nights like this. He decides to take a chance.

“We should probably get used to it then, huh?” he says. He loops an arm around James’ shoulders, and James stiffens for just a moment before he seems to catch on. Then he leans in to Clint’s side, closer than he’s ever been. He seems to fit perfectly, melting into the curve of Clint’s body as if there was a space there custom-made for him.

“Makes sense,” James says with a smirk. “Plus, now you gotta play one-handed,” he adds, picking a track and starting the countdown.

“No fair!” Clint says, but he still gives it a try rather than freeing his arm from where it rests, nestled comfortably behind James’ shoulders.


	3. Strike a Match

Clint doesn’t see James again before Friday, and honestly he’s a little disappointed. He wouldn’t have minded a little more cuddling practice, getting to feel James tucked in against him, the easy comfort between the two of them. 

Wait. Shit. He’s acting like a creep, isn’t he? This isn’t about getting to hold James, this is about showing the U.N. that they can’t treat James like he’s some kind of pariah. Or maybe it’s about showing Steve something about not letting a teammate down, even if it’s in the interest of world peace or whatever. Honestly, it’s a little bit hazy now, how it all happened and what exactly they’re trying to prove.

He’d be a little worried that James was thinking of backing out, but he got the text earlier today, agreeing to meet at 7 p.m. sharp. Clint has even sweet-talked JARVIS into giving him the keys to one of Tony’s cars, so that they can arrive after the rest of the Avengers. Clint is sure that Steve won’t make a scene once they’re already at the gala. Well, at least he’s _pretty_ sure.

Clint already has a tux, of course he does — and you can barely even see the rip where that bullet had grazed the sleeve unless you’re looking for it. When James agreed to be his date, however, he decided that he needed something a little more special.

He threw himself on Natasha’s mercy. She gave him a curious look, but blessedly didn’t ask any questions, and just a few hours ago a garment bag with a tasteful Dolce & Gabbana logo had been delivered to Clint’s rooms. 

At first he thinks Natasha is messing with him — the fabric has a subtle floral pattern, in a purple so deep it appears almost black. Clint worries that he’ll look ridiculous, but as soon as he puts it on he has to admit that Natasha’s taste is impeccable. The deep purple color makes his blue eyes seem even brighter, the lushness of the floral fabric only serving to emphasize the breadth of his shoulders.

He’s whistling by the time he grabs his duffle and makes his way down to the garage. The U.N. is putting them up for the weekend and Katie-Kate has Lucky, so he’s free and clear. The keys JARVIS gave Clint turn out to be to a sweet cherry-red Aston Martin DB11 Volante convertible, and the weather is perfect for it as Clint pulls out of the underground garage and up to the Avengers-only side entrance where he agreed to meet James.

He checks his watch and he’s even a few minutes early, which is frankly unprecedented. Unfortunately, that gives him a little time to think.

This is a date, right? A _pretend_ date, but Clint doesn’t want to be a bad pretend-boyfriend. That means he should carry James’ bag, right, and get the door for him? But they’re friends, too, so would that be dumb? Shit, he hasn’t been on a real date in — he doesn’t even want to calculate how long. Even before what happened with Loki he was never good at relationships, and after that he hasn’t even tried so much as a hookup. What the hell is he _doing?_

He gets out of the car, but it’s probably weird to just be standing there, so he gets back in the car. Then he gets out again, and tries leaning against the door, but the car is too low to really get a good lean on. He opens the trunk, making sure there’s room for James’ bag. There is. He tries sitting on the hood of the car, hoping that looks more casual.

The door opens and he jumps to his feet, probably ruining whatever effect he had managed to achieve. Then all thoughts fly from his head as he practically swallows his tongue.

He _knew_ that James was good-looking, okay? James Buchanan Barnes was on everyone’s list of historical crushes, and Clint has always had a bit of a thing for incredibly competent people who could kill you with their pinky finger. But he’d kind of forgotten, maybe, or possibly just pushed it down to the back of his head. He works with the _Avengers_ , for cryin’ out loud, if he got gobsmacked by a good-looking person on a regular basis he wouldn’t be able to take more than two steps in any direction.

But James is walking toward him and he must look like an idiot, jaw hanging open and eyes wide, because James is _more_ than good-looking. He’s so pretty Clint feels like he shouldn’t be able to look directly at him, and yet he can’t look away.

He’s kept the beard but cut his hair. It’s not quite the WWII-era haircut, but it’s short and tousled and looks very, very touchable. Clint is used to seeing James hide behind his hair, but now there’s no hiding — those incredible cheekbones and pale eyes on full display — and the result is _devastating_.

He’s wearing a traditional tux — black notched satin lapel, black bow tie, a snow-white shirt stretched across a chest so broad it looks like the studs are going to pop at any second. He looks, quite honestly, like every James Bond fantasy that Clint has ever had.

James stops a few steps away, his lips pressing into a line and his eyebrows furrowing a little. He ducks his head and runs a hand through his hair self-consciously. 

“It’s short,” he says, and Clint shakes himself out of his stupor, lurching forward to practically tear the duffel from his hand.

“It’s good — I mean, it looks good. _You_ look good, I mean. Very…” Clint’s brain cycles desperately through all the things he shouldn’t say. _Fuckable_. _Delicious_. _Licktastic_. “Distinguished,” he finally manages to croak out after a painfully long pause, dropping the duffel to sign along with the word because his inhibition goes to shit at times like these.

“Natalia chose it,” James says, running his fingers over one velvet sleeve. 

“Yeah, mine too,” Clint says breathlessly. He wants to feel that velvet under his palms, wants to run his hands all over James’ wide shoulders and down the curve of his spine right to his —

“Yours is...you also look very nice,” James says, and is it wishful thinking to read heat into the way his eyes wander slowly down Clint’s body?

“Car!” Clint blurts out, inanely. “We should — um, get in the car.”

“Okay,” James agrees. It’s a long moment, though, before either of them move.

* * *

Clint slows as they approach the designated entrance for the gala, wondering wildly if he should just keep on driving.

“There’s —” James starts, and then lapses into silence.

“Yeah,” Clint agrees. Shit, he should have expected something like this. It’s not a madhouse, but there’s a genuine red carpet and everything, as well as a smattering of photographers and a bored-looking camera crew.

“You okay with this?” Clint asks. The Avengers often do press after a battle but the Winter Soldier is never part of it. “We can try to go through quick, or — I mean, I know you said you didn’t mind, but we can go separately. Hell, I’m sure between the two of us we could even find a way to sneak in the back.”

James lifts his chin, sending Clint an unreadable glance. “I told you, I don’t mind if people know — if people _think_ — we’re steppin’ out. Unless _you_ mind.”

“Are you kidding me?! Jesus, I’d be fuckin’ — I mean, _anyone_ would be fuckin’ _honored_ to be your date. Hell, I’d take out a billboard if I could.”

James ducks his head, and Clint winces. That was probably a little obvious. 

“Then we’re good,” James says firmly, and that’s that, Clint guesses.

Then they’re up to the valet stand, and Clint hands the keys over, letting the valet know about the bags in the trunk.

James is already out of the car so Clint can’t open the door for him, but Clint slings an arm around his shoulders as they make their way up the red carpet. 

Clint can see some of the photographers hesitating, trying to figure out if they are important enough to waste a photo on. Then there’s a flash.

“Hawkeye! Over here!” a photographer calls, and the rest of them perk up. The steady glare of the news camera light joins the smattering of flashes.

“Hawkeye! What do you think about the award the U.N. is presenting the Avengers with tonight?”

“Hawkeye! What role did you have in the Avengers refusing to sign the Accords?”

“Hawkeye! Who’s your date tonight?”

The overlapping questions play merry havoc with his hearing aids, but Clint catches enough of them, and tackles the easiest one.

“I’m lucky enough to be escorting Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes tonight,” Clint says with his best stage smile, not breaking stride for a moment.

“James Buch — how do you spell — oh!” The reporter’s eyes widen, her pen falling from her hand as she finally seems to recognize James. “Winter Sol — I mean — um, Mr. Bar — _Sergeant_ Barnes — how long — ”

“You all have a lovely night,” Clint says easily, keeping James tucked under his arm as the clamor spreads.

Then they’re in the entrance, nodding to the embassy guard as they finally make it through into the blessedly cool and quiet lobby.

“You okay?” Clint still has his arm around James, a little too close to see his expression.

“Yeah,” James says a little unevenly. He doesn’t sound Winter Soldier-neutral, though, so that’s something. Clint feels James’ shoulders rise as he pulls in a deep breath. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he says with a little more conviction. “That was really somethin’ huh? You get that a lot?”

“Not really.” Clint steps back, but some part of him is reluctant to let go of James just yet. He ends up letting his hand slide down until their fingers are tangled together. It’s good for their cover story anyway, right?

“Usually they don’t even recognize me unless Cap or Tony is standing next to me,” Clint explains further, as an officious-looking man with a lanyard badge and a clipboard approaches them. “Nothin’ really noteworthy about me.” 

James shoots him a glance, but before he can decipher it clipboard-man is in front of them, and Clint is digging through his phone for the electronic invite. The man scans it, and honestly, Clint could have broken through this trifling security in about ten different ways.

“Ah...Mr. Barton,” the clipboard-man says. “Welcome. And your guest is?”

James pulls the metal hand from his trouser pocket and gives clipboard-man a jaunty wave. 

“C’mon, darlin’,” Clint says, smothering a laugh as clipboard-man pales. “Sounds like the party’s this way.”

He tugs James toward him with their linked hands, and makes for the open ballroom doors.

“What — um — wait —” the clipboard-man is stuttering.

“Oh hey! They’re playin’ our song!” Clint adds brightly.

James starts snickering, leaning into Clint’s shoulder as they sweep through the doors and into the gala.

 _“'The Way You Look Tonight’_ is our song?” James snarks.

“Sure. It is now.”

* * *

Clint wouldn’t have admitted it to himself, but he’d been a little too nervous to eat much today, and he’s suddenly starving. Luckily there’s quite a spread, and he beelines for the buffet table.

James stays by his side, checking out the entry and exit points, while Clint fills two plates. James still seems surprised when Clint hands him one of the plates at the end of the line, though, like he expected Clint to have filled both plates for himself like some kind of animal.

“Wanna sit?” Clint asks, and they find an empty table. 

Clint spots a few of the other Avengers mixed in with the crowd of schmoozing people. Nat is talking animatedly to an older woman in an elaborate dashiki, and actually seems to be enjoying herself. Bruce is lurking near the bar, nursing what Clint knows is probably a club soda with lime. He can’t see Thor, but he can hear his booming laugh.

No one in the room seems to have taken much notice of James and Clint, though, which is a relief. James still seems on edge, barely picking at his food, and Clint casts his mind about for a topic of conversation.

“So, which of us do you think is wanted in more U.N. countries?” he blurts out, and then winces.

To his surprise James laughs. “Lemme count,” he says, his posture easing. “I’ve definitely got Albania…”

That conversation ends up surprisingly engrossing, and before they know it the lanyard-and-clipboard man is up at the podium, fiddling with the microphone.

“Good evening, distinguished guests,” he begins pompously. “It is my honor to introduce…”

[return] [minutes] [little] James signs.

Clint’s eyes follow him as he makes his way to the bar. He comes back with two whiskeys in each hand just as the lengthy introduction ends. Everyone stands and claps politely as the first speaker takes the stage.

James sets two of the whiskey glasses in front of Clint, and two in front of himself. 

[drink] [when] he signs, and then looks thoughtful. [says] [quote] [u] [n] [i] [t] [y].

Clint snorts, gathering some looks from the table next to them. 

[drink] [when] he signs back, [says] [quote] [n] [o] [b] [l] [e].

By the time the Secretary-General has taken the podium they’ve added “sacrifice,” “compassion,” “build,” “friendship,” and “future generations” to the list. Clint has to admit, the drinking game is helping keep things interesting and has the added benefit of helping him focus on the speaker despite the murmured babble of multiple people receiving in-ear translations that surrounds him.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the Secretary-General starts, his eyes sweeping genially over the crowd. Clint catches a glimpse in his peripheral as James pulls his hand up from his lap and places it on the table just so, making it gleam in the candlelight. “I bid you all a — a warm —” The Secretary-General’s eyes widen, his voice faltering as he catches sight of it. 

Clint places his left hand in James’ metal one, giving it a squeeze. Then he slings his right arm over James’ shoulders for good measure. The Secretary-General’s mouth falls open, and then snaps shut. “A warm welcome,” he continues, the smile returning to his face but looking a little brittle this time, “to this auspicious event, celebrating unity among nations, and honoring the noble efforts of our guests of honor, the Avengers.”

Clint and James clink glasses and swig.

* * *

Clint is pleasantly buzzed by the time the Secretary-General wraps up his remarks. They are then treated to an interminable slide show, highlighting many of the public-facing activities of the Avengers. Clint finds himself slumping into James, pressed against his side so they can whisper snarky comments directly into each other’s ears under the cover of the overly-dramatic music. 

As usual there’s not many photos of Hawkeye, and the few that made the cut were taken with a telephoto lens, Clint almost unrecognizable in his full gear and tinted eye protection. Near the end of the presentation, though, there’s one of him at an event for a local animal shelter, sitting on the ground with a lapful of puppies, a ferret looped around his neck and a couple of kittens valiantly climbing his chest.

Some of the people at the next table do a double-take, heads swiveling as they realize belatedly who Clint is. 

“Aw, sweetheart, you look adorable,” James croons loud enough for them to hear, leaning in and planting a kiss on Clint’s cheek, and Clint feels himself flush hot, his heartbeat quickening.

There’s more speeches, with dinner courses served in between. James murder-glared anyone who approached, so they have the table to themselves. Clint might feel a little bad about it, but he’s actually not having such a bad time, snarking through the ceremony with James, and so he’s not gonna push his luck. Plus, he gets half of the giant basket of dinner rolls, so double win. As the speeches drag on, however, the whole crowd seems to be getting restless, chatting over the speakers in barely-polite undertones until clipboard-man takes the podium once again.

“And now…” he says, “It is my absolute honor to introduce our guest of honor tonight...Steven Grant Rogers...Captain America!”

Steve must have been waiting in the wings this whole time, his eyes squinting against the brightness as he takes the stage. He blinks a few times, and then his gaze narrows in unerringly on James.

 _Jesus, Mary and Joseph!_ Clint reads on Steve’s lips, and James seems to make it out too, snorting with laughter as Steve glances heavenward as if asking for patience and heaves a weighty sigh before clicking the microphone on.

“Honored representatives of these United Nations and esteemed guests, it is my sincere privilege to address you here today,” Steve begins, shuffling the papers in his hands a little. 

He stops, swallows, and starts again. “It is my privilege to address you here today,” he starts again. He tries to gaze across the crowd, but Clint can see his eyes snag on James again.

Steve looks down at his prepared remarks again. A muscle tics in his jaw as he frowns down at the papers. Clint sees his brow furrow, and then his chin lifts in determination.

“You know,” he says conversationally, putting the papers aside. “That’s interesting, the way they introduced me. They called me Steven Grant Rogers, _and_ Captain America. And both of those things are true.”

“What’s he doing?” James whispers in Clint’s ear and Clint shrugs.

“A lot of people think they know how Captain America feels about things — the ideas he has and the ideals he stands for. For better or worse. But tonight — tonight I think I’m just gonna speak for myself. I’m gonna let you know exactly what _Steve Rogers_ thinks.”

“Uh oh,” Clint murmurs.

“Because I’ve had a lot of time to think, listening to these other fine speakers, and watching that beautifully-prepared slide presentation. I realized that I have these eloquent remarks, written by professional speechwriters and carefully vetted through several levels of military and political channels.” Steve picks up the papers again, brandishing them. “And I could read ‘em. I could talk about the importance of working together, and friendship among nations, and all that diplomatic folderol.”

He leans forward onto the podium, his bright blue eyes sparkling. “But I’ve realized, maybe, that sometimes — and trust me, I understand the irony of saying this to this particular esteemed audience — but sometimes maybe diplomacy is overrated.” His eyes find James’ again, and Clint reads the apology in them.

“Dumbass,” James mutters under his breath, but it sounds affectionate.

“I said it was a privilege to address you all, and that was true. It is a privilege that very few people have had. But what good is privilege unless we use it?” Steve says, eyes scanning the crowd intently again. “And watching that lovely presentation, what I realized, is that a lot of time my team — the Avengers — spend a lot of time just putting out fires. My life, and the lives of the people I care about most, are on the line every day in order to mitigate the damage. But here I am now, in the room with many of the people who not only lit the spark, but laid the kindling for those fires. There’s not going to be many opportunities like this, and so I plan to make the most of this one.”

Clint can see a little bit of commotion in the wings, people bustling about. Clipboard-man takes a few steps toward the podium, and then immediately backs away as Steve stares him down.

Steve turns back toward the murmuring audience and smiles winningly. “I have some thoughts about some topics. I think I’m gonna start with wealth inequality, the erosion of worker protections, racial injustice, and the mistreatment of queer people and ethnic and religious minorities in the esteemed member nations of this organization, and work my way down the list.”

* * *

Steve is surrounded by people after his speech, and Clint and James use the distraction he provides to dutifully make the rounds. Theoretically they are fulfilling their obligation to schmooze at this thing, but Clint knows they are both basically casing the room, assessing the guests for any threats. After all, they both saw how pathetic the security was.

Neither of them are much for small talk, but they exchange a few words with anyone who is brave enough to approach them, and stop by the various tables the Avengers have placed themselves at. 

They bump into Sam and his date, a nurse named Claire who actually recognizes Clint from a few of his many Hell’s Kitchen emergency room visits. They chat companionably for a few minutes before moving on. 

Scott has brought his daughter, Cassie, who is documenting the whole evening on social media. She tells them that the video she tagged #socialiststeverogers is already trending on TikTok. Jane and Bruce look like they are deep into a discussion of astrophysics with Thor looking on indulgently, so they give them a wave and keep moving.

Tony has a table with Colonel Rhodes and Pepper, and Clint has never been exactly sure which one of them he is dating. Both? Neither? 

Speaking of platonic life partners Clint’s own platonic life partner, Nat, is gracefully cutting through the crowd around Steve, extracting him as skillfully as any exfil Clint has ever seen. The band starts up again even though no one is dancing, and Clint and James gratefully make their way back to their table, where a whole dessert tray is waiting. And Clint may have to train extra next week to compensate, but overall this gala thing is turning out pretty damn good from his perspective.

He has just set the double chocolate cake in front of James and started in on the cheesecake himself when Nat and Steve roll up to the table. Not that Clint is surprised and James doesn’t seem to be either, because if there’s one thing in life as sure as death and taxes, it’s that when there’s a fight to be had Steve Rogers will come to _it_.

Clint hopes it doesn’t come to that, although he reconsiders slightly when Steve reaches over and casually snaffles the lemon tart off their dessert tray, shoving the whole thing in his mouth.

“Boys,” Nat says, the assessing look in her eyes making Clint shift in his seat a little.

Steve pulls Nat’s chair out for her — and aw, that’s kinda sweet — before pulling another one around and straddling it, fixing Clint and James with a steely-eyed look.

 _“So...you got detention,”_ Clint mutters under his breath and James cracks up, tipping into Clint’s shoulder to muffle his laughter.

Steve scowls. “Has there ever been a bear you two wouldn’t poke?”

“Pot. Kettle,” James snorts.

“Seriously,” Clint chimes in, slinging an arm around James. “Wanna talk about how you held steady eye contact with Zhang Jun during that five-minute denunciation of birth prevention and mass sterilization among the Uighur?”

Steve ignores both their comments in favor of giving the arm a good long look. “Either one of you two wanna explain what’s going on here?” he asks, gesturing vaguely between Clint and James.

“C’mon, Stevie, I know I gave you the birds-and-the-bees talk back in ‘29. You need a refresher?” James asks drily.

Clint watches in fascination as a hot blush spreads across Steve’s cheeks even as that muscle in his jaw starts ticcing in annoyance. 

“So I’m to believe that you both started dating — suddenly and _conveniently_ — just in time to rub it in the faces of the entire U.N.?” Steve asks.

“Well, I dunno if it was all that sudden.” Clint pretends to consider it. “What do you think, schnookums — when was the first time we made out on the range?”

There’s just a flash of murder in James’ eyes at the nickname before he blinks it into an expression of adoration. “Can’t have been long after we met, _sugarplum_ ,” he croons. “I mean, seein’ you with that bow...nobody could resist that.”

“Are you kiddin’ me?” Clint says hotly. “That’s _nothin’_ compared to you field stripping your M16 in less than…”

James smiles, slow and warm, and Clint cuts his sentence off midway, momentarily dazzled and confused. Fuck, he kinda lost the line between real and pretend there for a minute, didn’t he? “Uh…” he starts, struggling to recover.

James seems to realize Clint’s head is filled with nothing but static right now. “Anyways,” he cuts in, pulling Clint even closer with an arm around his waist and turning back to Steve. “Not so sudden, is what we’re sayin’.”

Steve is still watching them both closely, but now he shifts his suspicious gaze to Clint.

“Clint,” he starts. “If you’re just messin’ with Bucky, I gotta —”

 _“Stevie,”_ James says, and the low warning in his voice is so clear that it stops Steve in his tracks. Even Nat tenses up, shifting imperceptibly closer. “Are you sayin’ that I can’t make my own decisions?”

Ouch. Steve takes it like a punch in the gut, deflating immediately.

“‘Course not, Buck,” he says sheepishly. “I just —”

“Yeah, well, then maybe you should focus on your _own_ date and leave me to mine,” James says pointedly. 

“Yeah. Okay.” Steve rubs a hand over his face. He stands, and then looks at the two of them one more time. “If this is — I mean, if you really…” He takes in a deep breath and starts again. “I’m happy for you both. Honestly.”

It’s so earnest that Clint starts to feel a little guilty. James stands, pulling Steve into a tight hug, and then just as quickly pushing him back again. “Thanks, punk,” he says, true warmth in his voice.

"Воробышек,” Nat says to Clint. "Алёша," she says to James. “Have a _lovely_ evening,” she purrs, her voice rife with insinuation, and then saunters off arm-in-arm with Steve.

James sits back down and he and Clint just look at each other for a long moment.

“I dunno if we won that one or lost it,” Clint finally says, and James shrugs. He looks a little pensive, though.

“Rock paper scissors for the crème brûlée?” Clint suggests, anxious to bulldoze past the awkward moment, and James grins.

“You’re on.”

* * *

_Here's a better view of The Boyz on their way to the party!_


	4. Light the Spark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this several weeks ago, and was surprised at the time when T'Challa made a sizeable part for himself in this chapter. Posting it now, I can only hope that these words honor the dignity, warmth, and unparalleled aura of justice Chadwick Bozeman brought to this character. Rest in power, Mr. Bozeman.

By the time they are shown up to their room Clint is loose and happy, the warm burn of whiskey in his belly and the warm weight of James’ arm across his back as they follow one of the embassy staff members to a nondescript door.

“Here you go, gentlemen,” she says, handing them a set of key cards. “Tomorrow’s agenda is in your room. Please do not hesitate to contact us with any requests.”

“Aw, agenda, no,” Clint whines while James turns his charm on the staff member, smiling and thanking her so sincerely that she looks a little dazed as she turns to go. Clint sympathizes. 

They let themselves into the room, James immediately starting a check of entry and exit points while Clint sets up his StarkPhone to sweep for cameras and listening devices. 

“All clear,” Clint reports, setting his phone to charge.

“No exit point in the bathroom,” James returns. “Bedroom windows look out on the garden. Wall is scalable but windows are bulletproof and locked tight. Could punch it out if I hadta, though.”

“Well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

Clint shrugs his jacket off, laying it across the back of the nearest chair and starting in on his tie. He checks the closet and their bags are there. He pulls out his duffel and rests it on...the only bed.

“Huh,” he says. “One bed.” He looks at James, who raises a sardonic eyebrow.

“You didn’t foresee this completely predictable circumstance?”

“Uh. Didn’t think about it?” Clint rubs the back of his neck. “I can kip on the floor, though, definitely no big deal…”

“Don’t be a dumbass,” James interrupts. “This bed is bigger’n the whole coldwater walk-up I used to share with Stevie.”

“Okay.” Clint imagines it for a minute. It’s stupid, they’ve definitely cuddled closer on the couch than they would have to be on this giant bed, it’s just — it’s a _bed_. And even Captain America thinks they’re fucking, now. It changes the situation a little, is all. “You’re sure?” he finally asks.

James rolls his eyes. “I get first shower.”

Clint pulls his arrow kit from the duffel bag. Maybe fiddling with that putty arrow will be enough to distract him from the idea of James undressing on the other side of that thin door.

* * *

And fuck Clint’s life, because James strolls out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam like some kinda sex magician, sleep pants slung low on his hips and thin t-shirt sticking to his damp skin as he towels his hair dry. 

He has to know what he’s doing, right? Sauntering past Clint so close that their bare arms brush, smelling all warm and soft, like clean soap and fancy shampoo.

“All yours,” he says casually, and Clint practically flees to the bathroom.

It’s not much better in there, surrounded by the steamy scents. Clint locks the door and breathes in deep through his nose. He swipes a patch of the mirror clear. [pull] [you] [together] [fuckhead] he signs to himself in the mirror, his movements jerky.

It’s all just so _intimate_. Shooting in the lane next to someone, watching t.v. with them — it doesn’t hold a candle to knowing that they favor rosemary mint shampoo, let alone preparing to crawl into bed next to them for the night.

What if Clint has a nightmare? Fuck, what if _James_ does? James was right, how had Clint not thought ahead to anything beyond the gala?

Clint braces his hands flat on the counter and closes his eyes, groaning as disastrous scenarios start to flash through his head.

“Everything okay in there?” James calls out, and Clint jumps, clunking his head on the mirror.

“Yeah.” He rubs the sore spot on his forehead, hoping it won’t leave a mark. “Just fine.”

* * *

Clint’s shower is the opposite of relaxing. It’s all he can do to stand there, trying desperately not to think of James naked in the exact same spot only minutes before. Or what it would be like for them to _both_ be in the shower at the same time, water trickling down James’ broad chest, over the cut of his abs, and down to…

Exactly how good is James’ enhanced hearing anyway? Clint bites down on the heel of his hand, pressing his sore forehead against the cool tile and willing his dick to settle down. Better not risk it. He braces himself and yanks the temperature to cold.

* * *

He feels all sobered up by the time he makes his way out, his own sleep pants clinging uncomfortably to his damp skin because he did a half-assed job drying himself off.

James seems entirely too comfortable, propped up in bed, reading something on his StarkPad. He glances up only momentarily as Clint leaves the bathroom, but then focuses back on whatever he’s reading. 

Clint wanders around the room awkwardly, straightening things up — rehanging both their suits, lining their shoes up in the closet — anything he can think of to delay climbing into the bed with James. At times he feels like James’ eyes might be on him, but every time he turns his head James is focused on his StarkPad.

Finally, there’s nothing else Clint can think of to do. He heads over to his side of the bed and gingerly peels back the covers, sliding in.

“Here’s the agenda for tomorrow,” James says, tossing him a laminated page from his side table. 

Clint looks it over, and...aw. He knew it wasn’t going to be much fun, but still.

“Breakfast at _eight?_ Jeez.”

“Yeah,” James agrees absently, flicking to the next page on the Starkpad.

“And — aw, crap. Art museum?”

James frowns a little at that, turning his full attention to Clint now. “Actually lookin’ forward to that a little. They’re opening to the public late so we’ll have the run of the place. You don’t like art?”

Clint shrugs, finding his eyes skittering away from James’ steady gaze.

“It’s okay, I guess.” Even he can hear the flatness in his own voice, and he winces internally.

“What’s up?” James sets the StarkPad aside.

“It’s — it’s nothing.” He can still feel James’ eyes on his face. “It’s just —” Fuck, why is he still talking? He’s trained in resisting interrogation, and yet two seconds of silence from James has him blabbing his heart out. “Buncha fancy people in a place like that, talkin’ about art stuff. I always stick out like a sore thumb. Feel like everyone’s wonderin’ how a middle-school dropout got in the middle of all ‘a them.”

“That’s bullshit.” James turns on his side, his hand finding his way onto Clint’s shoulder. “You gotta know you’re smarter than most of the people here. There ain’t a one of them who can do the kinds of things you can do.”

“That’s not —“ Clint shrugs again, and it shifts James’ hand on his shoulder. It slides down, warm against the skin of his bicep. He tries not to focus on it. “That’s just physical stuff. It’s not _smarts_ , not like Banner or Stark, or —”

“You really don’t see it, do you?” James interrupts.

Clint suppresses the urge to shrug again. He doesn’t know what James is talking about, but he’s sure he misses a lot of stuff.

“You think anyone else here can make the calculations you do for the shots you take?”

“That’s — that’s just _instinct_ , it’s not like I’m really doin’ the math or anythin’.”

“Uh huh,” James says dubiously. “That just means you’re doin’ the math so fast you don’t even realize you’re doin’ it. And how many languages do you speak? I bet you could give some of these U.N. interpreters a run for their money.”

“I just picked ‘em up, though,” Clint protests. “Languages just come kinda natural — It’s not like I _studied_ them or anything. Can’t spell for shit in any of ‘em, an' —”

James just steamrolls right over him. “And do you even realize how much the team looks to you for tactical? You see how battles are gonna play out better’n anyone —”

“It’s just ‘cause I’m up high,” Clint protests. “I got a good view.”

“Stark is up high. So’s Sam. Hell, so am I. The team doesn’t look to us to call plays the way they do you ‘n Steve. Hell, half the time Steve is too quick to rush in, and it’s all on you.”

“I’m not —”

“Jesus, Clint.” James sits up, and Clint sits up too, the frustrated edge to James’ voice making his skin prickle a little. “You talk yourself down like it’s your second job.”

Clint looks down at where his hands are clenched in the covers. Yeah, he does do that. He knows it, Nat tells him too. He forces himself to take a deep breath, and relaxes his grip. 

“Listen close, because I’m only gonna say this once,” James says, and his voice has softened now. “Part of the reason Steve was so set on us getting along in the beginning? It’s ‘cause if one of us had to be sidelined on joint missions, it wasn’t gonna be _you_.”

“That’s —” Clint can’t even begin to make sense of that. He searches James’ face for some sign of a lie, but finds nothing. “That can’t be true.”

“He told me plain, and what’s more it woulda been the right call. I’m a good operative, but I’ve been on missions with the Avengers when you’re there, and I’ve been on missions with the Avengers when you’re gone. The whole team works better when you’re on it. And I’m guessin’ Steve thought you already knew because if not he sure as hell shoulda told you. He’s always on the phone with Fury, makin’ promises and fightin’ to get you back when SHIELD keeps you for too long.”

Clint feels hot all over, a weird combination of pleased and embarrassed. It’s not that he thought he was _useless_ , he knows he’s good at his job because he works damn hard to be. But he doesn’t have gamma radiation strength, or demigod powers. He’s not enhanced or honed from childhood into a weapon. He doesn’t even have fancy armor or wings or size-shifting technology. And sometimes he’s wondered, in the dark of a sleepless night, if Cap just keeps him around out of pity, letting him work off the debt he incurred under Loki’s control. 

“You really think that?” he can’t help asking. “That I’m...I’m _important_ to the team?” 

James is smiling, slow and soft. He moves, his hand coming to rest warm on the side of Clint’s face.

“Yeah,” he says, his thumb drawing a line of heat up Clint’s cheekbone. “You’re important.”

For a moment they are frozen like that. They’re close, so close that their breath stirs the air between them. James’ eyes are vivid this close, pupils dark, and when James parts his lips again Clint almost thinks that maybe…

“Did you conk your head?” James asks, his brow furrowing as his eyes flick up to Clint’s temple.

“No,” Clint says, reflexively bringing his hand up to cover the bump and then wincing when he touches it. “Well, maybe a little.”

“Jesus, sweetheart, I can’t leave you alone for a second,” James says, but there’s something fond in his voice that kindles an answering warmth in Clint’s chest. Whatever moment they had was broken though, as James sits up, reaching for the light.

“Now go to sleep,” he says, flicking off the bedside lamp and settling back under the covers. “We’ve got a big day tomorrow. Good thing I’m here to make sure you don’t slide into a coma during the night.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Clint protests weakly, but he slides down in the bed too. He pulls out his hearing aids, setting them on the side table, and then settles on his side, facing away from James.

“But it is. Good that you’re here,” he murmurs. If he can’t hear himself say it, maybe it doesn’t count if James doesn’t want to hear it.

But then maybe he does, because Clint feels James slide a little closer. James’ arm comes to rest, warm and heavy across Clint’s shoulder, curling around his chest, as he presses up against Clint’s back, snuggling close.

Clint feels James’ hand moving against his chest, and he brings his hand up automatically to feel.

[o] [k] [question] James signs into Clint’s hand.

Clint reverses it, putting his hand in James’, forming a thumb’s up. “S’good,” he murmurs. 

He can’t hear his own words but James relaxes, pulling him just that little bit closer, and sighing into the back of his neck.

Clint closes his eyes, his head still spinning with everything that has happened today. James said he was _important_ , and he touched his cheek, and he called him _sweetheart_ , even when no one else was listening.

And now James is curled around him, warm and solid, even though it puts his back to the door. Just before Clint drops off into sleep he realizes that James is still holding his hand, fingers linked with his.

* * *

Clint feels pressure against his arm.

“Go ‘way, Lucky,” he mumbles, batting at it.

The pressure turns firmer, rubbing up his arm once or twice and he pries his eyes open.

James is smiling at him, so bright and pretty that Clint can only stare at him for a moment, wondering if he died in the night and went to heaven.

[morning] [sunshine] James signs.

Clint’s brain wakes up a few seconds later and he pushes himself upright, reaching for his aids and pressing them into place. Fuck, but he must have slept deep and heavy. Not only does he feel better-rested than he has in months — maybe even _years_ — but also James is showered and dressed, which means Clint slept through it all.

He rubs a hand over his face, and when he pries his eyes open next James is holding out a giant cup of coffee.

“Marry me,” Clint rasps, grabbing for it. 

He cringes a second later but James is already laughing. “From fake dating to fake marriage proposals. You move fast.”

Clint takes a big gulp of the coffee to cover his reaction. _Fake_ dating. He can’t let himself forget that.

* * *

Breakfast is a more relaxed affair, mostly just the Avengers and a few other overnight guests since the ambassadors have their own residences locally. Some of them may come to the art museum today, depending on their level of curiosity about the Avengers, but most won’t be around until the fancy garden party tonight.

Clint and James end up with a table to themselves again, and neither of them seem to mind. Clint is halfway through shoveling waffles in his face when he feels James tense up a little next to him, and then they both watch the man coming toward them. 

“If I may join you?” he asks. He is handsome, with close-cropped hair, dark skin, and neatly-trimmed facial hair, wearing a knee-length dashiki with silver embroidery. 

Clint chews his bite of waffle slowly, leaving it to James to respond. If he wants to tell this guy to fuck off, Clint will back him up regardless of whatever international incident may result.

“Yes. Fine.” James says, and Clint had hardly realized how comfortable James has been all this time until suddenly the Winter Soldier is back, his voice flat and his eyes cold.

“Thank you,” the man says, as graciously as if James hadn’t just tried to freeze him solid with his gaze. He seats himself, and then picks idly at the fruit on his plate for a few moments, as Clint gives James’ knee a reassuring squeeze under the table.

They all wait a minute until the man seems to have had enough of pushing blueberries around. “I am Prince T’Challa,” he eventually says, with a graceful click consonant that Clint doesn’t have a chance in hell of replicating.

“Clint Barton.” Clint holds out a hand to shake. 

Clint may have to nudge James a little, but after a moment he holds out a hand as well. “James,” he mutters.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Barton,” T’Challa says. “And you as well, Sergeant Barnes.”

James stiffens up again, and Clint doesn’t like that at all. 

“So what does the Prince of Wakanda want to talk to us about?” Clint fires back, because yeah, he knows things too, including the dossiers of every bigwig who was invited to this thing. 

T’Challa appears to take Clint’s sharp response in stride.

“I mean you no harm,” he clarifies, still looking at James. “In fact, quite the opposite. I had hoped to speak with you about something we have in common.”

James and Clint look at each other, and Clint makes a ‘go ahead’ gesture with his forkful of waffles.

T’Challa turns a ring on his finger. It is heavy and silver, with a bluish sheen to it. He pulls it off and taps it on the table a time or two, apparently considering.

“This is the royal ring of Wakanda. It is typically worn by the king, but I have it here because his power is vested in me for the purposes of reaching an agreement with the United Nations.”

“It’s pretty,” Clint says, letting the impatience show clearly in his voice. T’Challa’s eyes crinkle at the corners.

“It is,” he agrees. “It is also vibranium. Like the Captain’s shield, which was a gift from our country almost a century ago. Like your arm, Sergeant Barnes.”

He slowly pushes the ring closer and closer to James’ arm. When it is just a fraction of an inch away, both metals seem to react somehow, a shimmer appearing in the air between them. 

James yanks his arm away and T’Challa seems just as eager to return the ring to his finger. 

“Kinda cool,” Clint acknowledges, when James stays tense and silent beside him. “But why does it matter?”

“I was speaking with your friends last night. Dr. Stark, and Captain Rogers.”

Clint’s head snaps around and sure enough, Steve and Tony are both watching, but pretend to be engrossed in their breakfasts when Clint makes eye contact.

“We were discussing some of the advances Wakanda has made, which we are now ready to share with the world. Advances that I would humbly say are decades ahead of your own technology.”

T’Challa rests his arm on the table and taps a few buttons on his watch and — yeah, okay, that _is_ fuckin’ impressive. A three-dimensional projection appears in the air above the watch, so realistic that Clint feels like he could touch it. Kids at play, tumbling around on a field after a ball, and Clint can’t see the point at first, but then he looks closer, and —

“Are those prosthetic limbs?” he asks. It shouldn’t be possible, their movements too natural and easy, but as he focuses in on one child at a time he can track the shine of metal amongst the flashing limbs as an arm here or a leg there catches the sunlight.

“Yes. Vibranium prostheses that are light, and comfortable, and move as easily as natural limbs. Prostheses that are _pain free_.”

James’ impassive expression cracks at those last words. He suddenly looks lost, and Clint finds himself moving closer, resting his arm around James’ shoulders.

“I understand that it may take time to build trust between our nations, and perhaps even longer to build trust between individuals. But I invite you, Sergeant Barnes, at your wish, to visit Wakanda. Or, you could visit our new embassy here, and I will have our doctors attend you there.”

“And what are you askin’ for in return?” Fuck this, Clint’s never been cut out for diplomacy — strategems and half-truths and carefully-worded power plays. His pulse thuds heavily, although whether in excitement or anger he’s not quite sure. “Money? Influence?”

T’Challa’s eyes crinkle again. “I understand your cynicism, but this is a gesture of goodwill. Nothing more. And nothing asked in return.” 

He leans forward, his expression growing serious. “I have heard your story, Sergeant Barnes. Your arm should be of your own choosing, and I had hoped to offer only that. No one should be forced to bear the mark of their oppressors.”

James makes a noise at that, something soft and hurt. His right hand twitches, maybe even unconsciously, a c squeezing into an s shape, and Clint’s concern overwhelms the last scraps of his patience.

“Yeah. Thanks for the offer, Prince T’Challa, seriously. James, I think maybe we should head up to the room. I feel a nap comin’ on. Excuse us.”

“Indeed,” T’Challa says with an incline of his head. “I wish you well.”

Clint stands, and after a laggy moment James stands along with him. They make their way to their room in silence, and Clint feels a weight fall off his shoulders when he gets the door closed and latched behind him.

“Jesus.” By the time he turns James is sitting on the edge of the bed, just looking stunned.

Clint gingerly sits beside him. He takes the hand that’s closest to him, not really noticing until afterwards that it’s the metal one. “You okay?”

“I don’t know,” James says. 

“Yeah. That’s...that’s valid.”

Neither of them saw this one coming. Even Stark admitted that he can’t replace the arm. It’s grafted fully onto James’ spine, hard-wired into his brain, with a hodge-podge of Cold War and more modern technology that Stark can’t even begin to parse. But then again, Clint knows that Tony and Steve would never have let this offer get to James if it weren’t for real.

“It’s just an offer. You don’t have to decide anythin’ now.”

James pulls his hand free and holds it up, clenching and unclenching the fist, watching the plates shiver and then settle.

“It won’t change anything,” James says dully. “All the people I killed with this hand. I’ll still have killed them. This wouldn’t wipe that clean. And maybe — maybe I don’t deserve to be clean.”

“Hey,” Clint says. Maybe he shouldn’t be butting in, but he can’t stand to hear James talk that way. “That’s _bullshit_. The people _Hydra_ killed with that hand will still be dead, and the people _you_ saved with it will still be alive. But if you want to be free of that arm, then you deserve whatever happy thing you want. You deserve _everything_.”

“You don’t really believe that,” James says, his voice still flat.

“Of course I do! What in the hell would make you —”

“‘Cause if you believed that about me _then you would believe it about yourself,”_ James cuts in.

Clint feels it like a punch to the gut, knocking him breathless.

“That’s different,” he manages weakly.

“Oh yeah? How?”

Clint’s stomach turns. They were talking about _James_ , not him. He doesn’t know how things backfired so quickly, but he can feel his breathing turning shallow, the creeping edge of panic on the horizon. He doesn’t want to admit it, doesn’t want to say the words, but James _can’t_ continue to believe that Clint blames him for what he did under Hydra’s control.

“You fought it,” he finally says, his voice raspy. “You fought it, every time. And I —” 

_You have heart_

“— I didn’t. In one second he had me, and then I gave him everything I could. I was _happy_ to do it.”

He pulls in a breath. It sounds embarrassingly wet and shuddery. 

The distant, shocky expression has faded a little from James’ face. His eyes are intent as they search Clint’s face.

“I know as sure as I’m sittin' here,” James finally says slowly, “that if you were in the chair they put me in, you woulda fought it just as hard as I did. Just like I know that if Loki had come at me with that scepter I wouldn’ta been able to do a damn thing either.”

Clint closes his eyes, sick at the very thought of something like that happening to James again.

“I’m working on it,” he manages. “I already believe it about you, an’ I’m working on believin’ it about me.”

“Okay,” James says. “I guess that’s good.”

Clint rests his elbows on his knees, trying to even out his breaths. He feels a tentative touch on his shoulder, and then James is rubbing his back, long soothing strokes that seem to loosen Clint’s calcified lungs.

When Clint straightens up a little, James’ arm curls around him. Clint has to slump, but he rests his head on James’ shoulder, and James lets him.

They sit in silence for awhile. Clint still feels a little shaky, and a lot stupid. James was the one who had been thrown a curveball here, and yet Clint’s the one who fell apart. But then James’ hand steals into Clint’s, squeezing warm and tight, and Clint thinks that maybe they are both holding each other together right now.

“What do you wanna do?” Clint finally asks.

James draws in a deep breath. His heart thuds heavy and solid against Clint’s ear. “What you said...about a nap. Can we actually do that? I know we just got up, but I —”

“Yeah,” Clint interrupts, relieved. He’s wiped too, feels hollowed out by everything they had talked about. “Yeah.”

He crawls up on the bed and settles next to James. This time James takes Clint’s arm, pulling it over his chest until Clint is the one snug up against James’ back.

Clint takes a moment to pull his aids free and set them on the side table. As the world goes muffled and swooshy around him, he presses his face into the nape of James’ neck and just breathes.

* * *

Clint blinks awake between one moment and the next. He hadn’t really thought that either of them would nap, but it’s … shit, it’s been a few hours, and they better get going if they are gonna make the art museum thing.

He’s on his back now, James sprawled half on top of him, the weight of his metal arm heavy over Clint’s abdomen.

James’ face is lax in sleep, looking impossibly young with his expressive forehead smooth and unwrinkled, his lips pink and slightly parted. He’s beautiful, and Clint feels his traitorous heart do a slow somersault in his chest.

He’s got to get a handle on this thing. Even if it’s not all in Clint’s head, even if James is starting to feel a little something too, this isn’t the time to pressure him. Clint promised him a platonic fake relationship, and he’s not gonna push for something different now while they’re trapped sharing a bed at this thing. Let alone what James just found out about maybe being able to get rid of the arm — the physical reminder of Hydra’s control that he had thought was inescapable.

It’s just one more day, really. The museum thing, the garden party tonight, and then brunch tomorrow.

Clint can keep himself together that long.

“James?” he says. He realizes his aids are still out so he snags them with his free arm, looping them in. 

James snuffles a little, rubbing his stubbled cheek against Clint’s shoulder. He looks fucking adorable, and kissable, and —

Clint can do this, he really can. One more day.


	5. Fan the Flames

James leans against the bathroom door, watching Clint tuck in his dress shirt. He still looks a little sleepy-eyed, his hair ruffled.

Clint has no idea how he’s supposed to dress for a fancy museum thing, but Nat would probably kill him if he showed up in a t-shirt.

“I thought you didn’t even wanna go to this thing,” James observes. “Why’re you gettin’ ready an hour ahead of time?”

“I thought we could walk it,” Clint says absently, wondering where his black belt went. “The U.N. arranged transport, but I figured neither of us wanted to be stuck in traffic on a party bus for 45 minutes when it takes an hour to get there walkin’. ‘Sides, you said you were looking forward to it.”

He gets down on his knees and peers under the bed. There it is, although god only knows how it got there.

He snags the belt and straightens up. James is just looking at him, something a little soft in his expression.

“What?” Clint asks, but James has already turned away, heading for the closet.

* * *

It’s a perfect June day, the kind that makes the city feel bright and clean, the kind that makes even native New Yorkers smile at each other for no reason. 

That must be the reason for Clint’s mood, the way he feels like he’s half-floating above the sidewalks. Not the fact that James had taken his hand as they walked through the lobby of the U.N. building, and that he’s holding it even now, even though they are far from anyone at the embassy who might see them.

James seems to have recovered fully from his shock, his body loose and easy as they make their way toward the Met, stopping for ice cream at Emack and Bolio’s because ice cream. James makes fun of Clint for getting Beantown Buzz, but — coffee in ice cream, what’s not to love? Not to mention James gets Bananas Foster, so it’s not like he’s got a lot of room to judge.

By the time they are climbing the endless stone steps of the museum Clint has almost forgotten that he had been dreading the tour. It’s not like they were gonna call on him, or anything, right? Do museum tour guides do that? Clint tries to remember when he was last in a museum, and thinks he was probably casing it at the time.

They show their invite at the door and Clint’s insecurities come rushing back. The atrium of the museum is like a cathedral, hushed and solemn, with massive stone archways and pillars everywhere Clint looks.

James must feel him tense up.

“Hey,” he says softly, and even that low tone seems to echo in the cavernous space. “Be good for the first half hour of the tour an’ I’ll give you a surprise.”

“Yeah?” Clint’s mood picks up. “Somethin’ good?”

“I think you’ll like it.” Clint tries to interpret the smirk James is wearing, but comes up with nothing. 

He doesn’t have the chance to wheedle any more information out of him, though, because suddenly Steve and Nat are there, saying their hellos, and then the rest of the Avengers and embassy guests trickle in.

Clint spots T’Challa across the atrium, but he just nods pleasantly and doesn’t seem to expect anything from them, for which Clint is grateful. 

Before long a middle-aged woman with her hair pulled into a graceful chignon and a short black jacket clears her throat. “Greetings, honored guests of the Museum,” she starts. Her eyes sweep the small crowd and focus in on Cap, and her serious expression cracks. “Steven,” she says warmly, smiling at him. 

James snorts a laugh that he smothers into a muffled cough. 

“What’s that all about?” Clint mutters.

James leans in close, whispering into Clint’s ear.

“The U.N. knew Steve was into art, so they arranged this tour to suck up to him. If they had done a little more digging, though, they would have realized that he spends so much of his time here he could practically _give_ the tour.”

“Oh, is _this_ where he disappears to every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon?” Clint had always wondered.

James shrugs. “Sometimes here, the MoMA, the Frick, the Whitney, the Guggenheim. He made me go to the Tenement Museum once, the punk, so I took him to the Hall of Science out in Queens.”

“You guys are _museum buddies_ ,” Clint repeats, both surprised and delighted.

“Yeah, can it, wise guy. Means I know my way around here. Still up for that surprise?”

“Hell yeah. Is it a _sexy_ surprise?”

Goddamn his impulsive mouth. He feels his cheeks heat as James’ lips part in shock. Then James seems to recover, his smirk returning.

“You know,” he says, tapping his chin with mock thoughtfulness. “You might be one of the few people who would think so.”

* * *

The tour group is just leaving the Roman sculpture court when James snags Clint’s hand. They loiter behind a pillar as the rest of the group moves on, and then James is dragging him back the way they came, through the atrium and into a gallery on the other side.

They speed past Egyptian art, James pulling Clint unerringly past huge limestone plaques and mummies, statues and sarcophagi. 

They pass through a huge glass-walled room that holds what looks to be large chunk of an Egyptian temple. Clint actually wouldn’t mind taking a closer look — he has fond memories of Egypt — but Bucky tugs him onward.

“I kinda liked that one,” Clint whines. He didn’t realize museums had stuff like this.

“You’ll like this more,” James promises.

Clint would like to think that James is dragging him off to some deserted supply closet to make out, even though he knows it’s a pipe dream. He lets himself imagine a little bit, though, and he’s so distracted by the fantasy that he’s not even paying attention to the signage as they round one more corner and come to a stop.

“What.” Clint blinks a few times. “What.”

It’s a cavalry of four horsemen mounted in full armor, on horses that are armored as well, pennants flying in the nonexistent breeze. 

“Holy _shit_.” Clint’s eyes drift up above the archway. _ARMS AND ARMOR_ , the sign reads.

“C’mon,” James says, his smirk widening to a grin at Clint’s reaction. “There’s a whole room just for bows.”

* * *

They spend so long at the museum, examining the weaponry and trading stories, that they almost run out of time to get ready for the garden party that evening. James jumps in the shower first while Clint checks in with Lucky and Katie-Kate. 

By the time Clint emerges from the shower, toweling his hair dry and then looping his aids in, James is almost fully dressed, in a light grey linen suit and crisp white shirt, open enough at the neck to show a tempting glimpse of collarbone that Clint just wants to _bite_.

Clint retreats back into the bathroom with his own garment bag, wiping a swath of the steamy mirror clear so he can give himself another talking-to in sign while he struggles into his own outfit. It’s from the time that Tony had dragged Clint with him to his tailor, a three-piece suit the color of chicory flowers that Tony had said matched Clint’s eyes.

He buttons up the white shirt, foregoing the tie since James isn’t wearing one, and shrugs on the jacket.

He takes a final glance in the mirror, trying to make his hair not stick up so much, before giving it up as a lost cause.

[day] [last], he tells himself. One more evening. He can do this.

He opens the door, and James is waiting. He looks Clint up and down, and then smiles, slow and soft.

He is _unfairly_ pretty when he smiles, and Clint feels his heart flipflop in his chest.

_One more evening._

* * *

Clint has to admit it, these U.N. stiffs know how to throw a garden party. The weather is perfect — cool and breezy as dusk falls. There’s a huge white tent set up in the middle, draped with fairy lights, with a stage and dance floor surrounded by tables topped with snowy white tablecloths. 

The rest of the garden only has low landscape lighting, making it look dark and shadowy. It makes Clint twitchy until James nudges his shoulder, casually nodding upwards. Clint leans back in his chair and glances up, spotting Redwing flying above, no doubt making slow infrared sweeps of the grounds.

They get a table to themselves again. There’s more boring speeches, but some really good steak and scotch to carry them through. And honestly, it’s just kinda nice to sit and shoot the shit with James in the breaks between speakers. Clint doesn’t know what’s gonna happen after this weekend but he can’t regret asking James to be here with him.

The speeches finally end and a jazz quartet takes the stage. The singer is pretty amazing, with a low, smoky voice. It’s not exactly Clint’s kind of music, but he can appreciate how it fits the tone of the evening.

He wonders if the songs are from James’ time — if this whole thing is an attempt to create some sort of sense of nostalgia for Steve, the guest of honor. If so, at least they don’t seem to be bringing up any bad memories. James is loose and easy at his side, feet up on one of the unoccupied chairs. 

Clint nudges him as Steve finally mans up and leads Nat to the dance floor. Or maybe Nat leads him. 

For such a graceful fighter he has two left feet. He stumbles and hesitates, his hands barely grazing over Nat’s body like he’s afraid to touch her, as if they don’t spar brutally on a weekly basis. It’s kind of adorable.

“What a mook,” James says affectionately, and Clint snorts his agreement. He’s not worried, though, Nat’ll whip him into shape. She takes dancing _very_ seriously.

“You okay with that?” Clint has never quite been clear on what Steve and James are to each other. Not to mention whatever Red Room history the Winter Soldier had with Nat.

“Glad they’re finally gettin’ off their asses and doin’ something about it.” James swirls the scotch in his glass, looking thoughtful. “A little weird though. Still have flashes sometimes, an’ forget that they’re all grown up. That Steve’s not some little asthmatic punk pickin’ fights in an alley, and Natalia’s not still shorter’n my elbow, learnin’ to throw a knife for the first time. Guess it’s part of how they scrambled my brain, it makes time a little...slippery sometimes. But it’s clear as day how they both feel about each other, an’ I don’t think either of ‘em are gonna hurt the other on purpose.”

Clint snags an extra chocolate soufflé off the tray of a passing waiter, setting it down in front of James as he thinks about that a little bit. 

“I guess that’s all you can ask for.” He knows Steve can be unforgiving and inflexible at times, and Nat can be callous and distant when she feels vulnerable. But they’ve made it this far, and that’s gotta count for something.

The song comes to a close. Steve has loosened up a little bit, laughing, and as they stop he leans down and chivalrously presses a kiss to the back of Nat’s hand. 

“‘Sides, they both deserve somethin’ good,” James says.

“Yeah.” Clint thinks about that too, through the next song — something swingy that he can’t quite place. After all the mindgames the Red Room put her through, Nat sure as hell deserves something solid and real, and Steve might have flaws, but he is that. And Steve — well, it would be nice if Steve could just have someone who’s not gonna die on him for a change, and there’s not many harder to kill than Nat.

The song winds down as Clint’s mind shies away from what _he_ deserves. James, though — he looks at James, still watching the dancers with a soft expression on his face. He hopes James gets everything he deserves and more.

The band strikes up again, and it’s only a few notes before Clint places the tune.

“Hey,” Clint says. “They’re playin’ our song!” He means to sound joking, but it comes out a little too wistful even to his own ears.

“Guess they are.” James looks Clint up and down for a long moment, and then holds out a hand as his lips twist up in a smirk. “Wanna dance?” 

_This is a mistake_ , Clint’s head says at the same time his mouth says, “Yeah, sure.”

They make their way out to the dance floor. There’s a moment of awkwardness as they both try to lead, and then Clint adjusts. They start off slow but James is apparently one hell of a dancer. He seems to enjoy it more than anything Clint has seen him do except shooting, an irrepressible smile on his face as they find their rhythm and he picks up the pace. Before long he’s lifting his arm and sending Clint into a spin.

But Nat taught Clint to dance, and did he mention that she takes that shit _seriously?_ Clint can keep up, turning into the spin and then letting James reel him in close again at the end, until James is laughing softly in Clint’s ear.

“Not bad for an old man,” Clint teases.

“This one’s from my time,” James replies, his voice a little dreamy. “I was nineteen years old, workin’ down at the docks. Steve ‘n me snuck into the picture house to see it. Fred Astaire was aces.” 

He sings the next few lines, his voice a low rasp in Clint’s ear.

_With each word your tenderness grows_

_Tearing my fears apart_

_And that laugh that wrinkles your nose_

_Touches my foolish heart_

Clint can’t help a shiver but James doesn’t seem to notice, swinging them into another turn as Clint follows, losing himself in the feeling of James’ arms around him, the scent of his warm skin and the sound of his soft laughter.

 _My foolish heart_ , Clint thinks, but he can’t help himself now. It’s too late, and he’s already lost. 

The song is reaching its big finish and Clint has only a moment of warning from James’ widening grin. James lifts his arm again, sending Clint into another big spin, and then as he pulls him back he adjusts his stance. Clint recognizes it just in time and then James is dipping him, almost to the ground, his metal arm and solid frame easily taking Clint’s weight. 

He misjudges a little as he pulls Clint up again, though, and Clint comes up a little too fast. Clint catches James’ shoulder just in time to keep them from crashing together, and then they are both laughing for a breathless moment.

James is so close, his eyes bright and crinkled at the corners, his lips parted. He leans in, pressing his forehead against Clint’s, still laughing, and Clint —

Clint lurches forward, closing that final distance and capturing James’ lips. They are soft and slack with surprise for just a moment, and then —

And then James is pulling back, his eyes wide, and Clint realizes a second too late what he’s done. He’s misread this whole situation. He’s done the one thing he swore he wouldn’t do.

“Shit,” he breathes. “Shit. _Fuck_. I’m — I didn’t mean —”

But the lie stops up in his throat because he _did_ mean it. Fuck, he meant it _so much_.

James’ eyes rake over Clint’s face, his expression unreadable. Then he turns, heading off the dance floor and Clint’s heart sinks. It takes him a moment to realize that James has a hold on the cuff of Clint’s jacket, pulling him along with him.

“Hey —” Clint follows James, off the dance floor and past the dinner tables, catching up to him at one of the pillars holding up the tent. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’ta —”

James turns and Clint halts just a step away, uncertain what he’s even apologizing for. Whatever was between them on the dance floor he still feels it. He clenches his hands into fists to keep from reaching out toward James.

“I’m sorry, Clint,” James says, his eyes still wide and searching. “I don’t want this —”

There’s a muffled pop and before he realizes what he’s doing Clint has pivoted, grabbing James around the waist and shoving him up against the pillar, shielding him with his body. 

They both map the sound to the champagne cork at the same time, the guests laughing as they fill their glasses from the foaming bottle.

Clint relaxes at the same time as he feels James ease, and he immediately feels foolish. James is better able to take a bullet than Clint is, he must look like an idiot trying to protect him. 

At the same time he suddenly realizes how close they are, pressed against each other so tightly that Clint can feel James’ heart beating against his chest. James’ arm is heavy around Clint’s neck, and Clint realizes that he has the metal hand up, fingers twined in Clint’s short hair as he shields the back of his head.

“Jesus,” Clint breathes, the rush of adrenaline slow to fade along with everything else he’s feeling right now. 

He starts to pull away but James’ metal fingers tighten in his hair, holding him in place. Clint is confused — and maybe even hopeful — for a moment before he follows James’ gaze down and sees that James has produced a ceramic knife from somewhere, held in a throwing grip. Clint stays in place for an extra moment to hide the action from the room as James disappears the knife back into a forearm sheath.

It’s only then that James’ words register. _‘I don’t want this —’_

“Shit.” Clint feels a rush of humiliation, rising up slow and hot to color his cheeks. Clint should have known. He _did_ know. James never asked for any of this. It was all Clint’s idea, and here he is, blurring the lines of their friendship, making James uncomfortable with his creepy feelings.

“I’m sorry.” He steps back, ducking out of James’ arm around his neck, yanking his hands away from James’ body as if it burns. “Shit, of course you don’t — I know that you wouldn’t — I’m just gonna —”

He doesn’t actually know _what_ he’s gonna do, just knows he needs to get away before he embarrasses himself further, stumbling over his own feet as he flees. Jesus Christ, what was he _thinking?_ That James fucking Buchanan _Barnes_ would want someone like _him_ — a piece of circus trash with a middle school education? 

They were just _pretending_ , and Clint had to go and let himself get carried away, falling head-over-heels just like he always does. Thirty-some years old and he hasn’t learned a fuckin’ _thing_.

He’s almost to the edge of the lights when he feels the hand grasp his forearm.

He wheels around and it’s James, and the look on his face —

Shit, now he’s got James feeling bad, just because Clint had gone and got his feelings all over him. It’s not James’ fault that Clint is like this, always mistaking kindness for love like a stray dog following home the first person who tosses it a scrap.

Clint swallows hard, shame clogging his throat. James is almost unearthly beautiful under the fairy lights, his eyes brilliant and his cheekbones sharp. Clint just feels clumsy and big and stupid, thick-headed and thick-tongued in the face of James’ ethereal beauty. How could he possibly have thought that someone like James could be for _him?_

“Clint, I —” James starts.

“It’s okay,” Clint manages, his embarrassment so sharp that it’s making his eyes sting. “I mean, you don’t gotta explain — it’s _fine_. I just got a little confused for a second, I didn’t mean —”

“Jesus, Barton, would you _shut up_ a goddamn minute?”

Clint winces, both at James’ tone and at the return to his last name. Fuck, but he’s really fucked it up this time. 

_“Shit,”_ James says with feeling, and then he’s tugging Clint by the arm again, hustling him into the shadows of the garden.

Clint goes, because what else is he gonna do? If he’s really pissed off James so much that he’s gonna beat Clint’s ass at the edges of a fancy garden party, then Clint’s just gonna have to take it.

James finds a nook between the turn of a hedge and a little stand of hawthorn trees. He pushes Clint up against a tree and his hand comes up and —

Clint tries to suppress the flinch, but he knows he’s not entirely successful. He blinks, and as his eyes adjust to the pale moonlight, he can see the expression on James’ face. He looks _devastated_ , and Clint pulls in a shaky breath, confusion starting to eclipse the humiliation.

“Jesus, Clint.” James’ voice is soft, tentative now. He drops his hand and backs away a step. “I — I don’t want this _if it’s just pretending_ ,” he says, signing the last few words as he speaks for emphasis. “ _That’s_ what I was tryin’ to say.”

“You — what?” Clint feels like his head is full of static. He can’t seem to make sense of James’ words. He must be misunderstanding something.

“I know how this all started, and you were just tryin’ to stick up for me. An’ if that’s all we’re doin’ here, that’s — well, I won’t say it’s okay with me, but it is what it is. But if you really mean it — if you were tryin’ to kiss me because you really _wanted_ to, and not just to show up these U.N. assholes —”

 _“Fuck_ , James.” Clint feels like he’s in some kind of dream state. “It’s _always_ been real for me. I mean, maybe I played it up a little ‘cause I didn’t want you to know, didn’t want to embarrass myself, but — there’s nothing that I haven’t meant.”

James takes a step closer. He’s so close that their lapels are brushing, that Clint can feel the soft puff of his breath. 

“Even when you kissed me?” he asks. And maybe he’s even teasing a little bit now, a sweet curve to his mouth, but Clint is still trying to pull his brain out if its tailspin.

“ _Especially_ when I kissed you,” he says helplessly, his voice embarrassingly hoarse with sincerity.

And this time it’s James who presses forward, his lips soft and tentative against Clint’s. Clint’s head is still spinning, still trying to make sense of this turn of events, but _this_ , at least, is something he’s sure of. He tips his head, capturing James’ mouth more fully, and feels James relax against him.

The kiss deepens, and Clint is glad that he’s pinned between the tree and James’ body, because he thinks his knees go a little weak as James pushes even closer, one hand sliding inside Clint’s jacket to press warm against the thin material of his shirt, while the other tangles in Clint’s hair. James uses the metal fingers in Clint’s hair to hold him in place as he coaxes Clint’s mouth open with his tongue.

James tastes decadent, like scotch and chocolate, and he’s a fucking _amazing_ kisser. Clint makes a noise in the back of his throat, both shocked and eager, and James smiles against his lips. He pulls back with a final little nip to Clint’s lower lip that makes him shiver.

Clint just stares for a minute, stunned.

“Fuck,” he finally says.

“Yeah,” James agrees, his eyes crinkling with amusement. And he’s so beautiful when he’s happy, it makes Clint’s heart do somersaults in his chest. He wants to kiss him again, he wants to touch him, and maybe, he realizes with dawning amazement — just maybe he’s _allowed_.

“Can I?” he asks, already reaching out, and James’ smile widens. 

“Whatever you want, doll,” he says, and Clint has no idea why that sends another shiver down his spine but he’s not even gonna question it. 

He slides one arm around James’s side under his jacket, sweeping down the curve of his spine to pull him closer as the other hand cups his face. James’ short beard prickles against Clint’s palm as Clint reels him in for another kiss.

Clint has felt James’ body against his before, but not like this — not with both of them breathing heavily, James’ hips hitching almost unconsciously against Clint’s thigh as they kiss, and kiss, and kiss until Clint’s head starts to spin. He pulls back with a gasp and then James is working down his throat, mouth hot and wet as he sucks little love bites into Clint’s skin, and everybody’s gonna _see_ them, and the thought of that only makes Clint burn hotter.

He leans his head back, gasping in a shuddering breath, his hair catching in the rough bark of the tree. The muscles of James’ back ripple underneath Clint’s palm as he ducks lower, pulling open his collar so that he can nip with sharp teeth and soft tongue at the hollow of Clint’s throat.

“James,” Clint manages breathlessly. The hand he has on James’ back slides down, grabbing a handful of James’ ass — tentatively at first, and then more solidly as James makes a little grunt of approval against his skin. 

James rolls his hips, rubbing Clint just right. Clint can feel James’ cock hardening against his thigh, his own straining against James’ hip. James’ metal arm curves around the small of Clint’s back, pulling him firmly into the next thrust. The plates in his arm recalibrate with a soft whirring noise, and that’s it, if they keep this up Clint’s gonna come in his pants.

“We gotta —” Clint tries again, his words trailing off as James drags his mouth back up, nipping at Clint’s sensitive earlobe. “We — James!”

“Yeah?” James rolls his hips again, just to be evil, and Clint smothers another entirely embarrassing noise.

“There’s gotta be at least three security cameras on us right now,” Clint finally manages to get out.

“Five,” James agrees amiably with another slow undulation of his hips, and _fuck_ — he has moves that would put Nagwa, the circus’ belly dancer, to shame. “Not countin’ Redwing.” 

“Then we should — we gotta —“ Clint tries to pull a coherent thought together. “Fuck, James what do you _want?”_

James pauses at that, pulling back to meet Clint’s eyes. 

Maybe he reads the vulnerability there, the sincerity of the question, because honestly if James wants Clint to blow him in the U.N.’s garden Clint will be on his knees in seconds, security cameras and international incidents be damned. He’s not exactly known for his good decisions, but this — this is important. This isn’t some hookup outside a bar, it’s _James_.

“I —” Clint feels the pressure of the words in his mouth like a physical force, the compulsion to be honest with James, to do this right for once. “I haven’t done anything with anyone, not since —” He pulls in a deep breath, steeling himself to say the name that he never says. “Not since Loki.” James’ eyes are a little too understanding and Clint has to look away. “I just mean, it’s been awhile. But I want this. I mean, if you do.”

James’ hand cups the side of Clint’s face and Clint can’t help but lean into it, his eyes closing at the reassurance. James feels solid and warm and real, and it’s enough to keep the bad memories at bay.

“I’m not sure what I’ve done and when, not exactly,” James finally rumbles, and Clint opens his eyes in surprise. He waits, while James seems to get his thoughts in line, his thumb sweeping back and forth across Clint’s cheekbone as he works it out. “I mean, I think I got most of the stuff from Brooklyn and the war back, but after that — I don’t know what’s real, or what they put in my head. All I know is that I never chose any of it.”

“We don’t hafta —” Clint rushes to say, but he stops short at the frustrated shake of James’ head.

“That’s not what I’m tryin’ to say — I’m tryin’ to say that I’m _choosing_ this. Hell, you’ve been driving me crazy all damn weekend.”

“I’ve been driving _you_ crazy?” Clint knows that he’s probably gaping, but he can’t even imagine. All the sexual frustration he’s been feeling, in close proximity to James all weekend, and _James_ is the one who has been going crazy? 

“Your fuckin’ _arms_ ,” James says, his voice a mix of amusement and frustration. “And your _back_ , what with you takin’ your shirt off all the damn time, and you’re always bendin’ over, and — and you’re so damn _sweet_ , givin’ me extra dessert, and standin’ up for me, and — and you have no idea how fuckin’ _amazing_ you are.” 

“I didn’t mean —” Clint feels a little dazed, still focused on the first part of what James said, because he can’t even begin to process the end of it. “I wasn’t tryin’ ta put the moves on you or anything, honest —”

“I know, sweetheart,” James says, and fuck if the endearment doesn’t make Clint melt a little. “You were just bein’ you, and that’s what’s been drivin’ me _wild.”_

“Yeah?” Clint quite can’t bring himself to believe it, but he sure as hell wants to. “Wanna take me back to the room and show me?”

James smiles, sharp and wicked, his eyes shining silver in the moonlight. “Damn right I do.”


	6. Let It Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Smut City! :-D

Clint has been a spy for quite a while. He’s trained with the best, for chrissakes, he’s no slouch at stealth. Still, he’s _nothing_ in comparison to James in action. 

James slides like a shadow along the edge of the garden, Clint in his wake, and not even Nat notices them. 

It’s the same going through the U.N. building. James waits until a server passes through the back door with a full tray before gliding in behind him, soft as a whisper. 

They make it through hallways, past security cameras and guards and wandering staff members alike, and Clint is pretty damn sure that they haven’t even left a trace.

It’s fucking _sexy_ is what it is, and by the time they get back to their room desire is humming hot in Clint’s blood, making his hands a little unsteady as he pulls the key card from his breast pocket.

If James notices he doesn’t say a word, but then again maybe he can’t see from where he’s nuzzling at Clint’s neck, finding that spot behind his ear that makes ‘The Man Who Never Misses’ fumble the key for a third time before he finally gets the door open.

And then they’re tumbling into the room, Clint peeling the jacket off James’ shoulders as James works at Clint’s shirt and waistcoat buttons. He seems to have a thing for Clint’s arms, and Clint doesn’t mind at all, shrugging free of the confines of his shirt, waistcoat, and jacket in one go as James presses him up against the wall and lets his hands wander.

Clint was expecting something fast and desperate. Hell, he knows he’s been wanting this so much, and it sounds like maybe James has too. So he’s unprepared for how James just cups Clint’s face in his hands and kisses him, soft and slow and careful, like he wants to learn every little thing that Clint likes.

Clint has always counted actions more than words, and _this_ — James treating him like he’s something precious, something _valuable_ — it makes something unlock in his chest, helps him start to believe that maybe this means as much to James as it does to him.

He unbuttons James’ shirt in between slow, drugging kisses that make his head spin. James lets the shirt fall, stripping off the forearm sheath and throwing it aside before working Clint’s belt open, teeth nipping at the curve of Clint’s jaw.

“What do you want?” he whispers against Clint’s skin.

“Anything. Everything,” Clint says, dizzy with the possibilities. He pulls in a shaky breath, trying to focus. “I want to get my mouth on you. Can I blow you?”

The hands on Clint’s body tighten for a second. “Yeah,” James breathes. 

He lets Clint turn them until James’ back is against the door. Clint takes a moment just to look. James’ hair is tousled, his lips pink and kiss-swollen. Clint’s eyes drag down James’ torso, realizing this is the first time he’s seen James without a shirt on.

James hunches a little, his eyes skittering away as his hand comes up instinctively to cover the line of gnarled pink scarring that demarcates metal from flesh. 

Clint catches his hand, dropping a kiss to the back of it before drawing it away. 

“You’re gorgeous,” he assures James. If anything the scars are a testament to James’ strength. “Anything I can’t touch?” Clint asks and James shakes his head. 

“Don’t feel much there, but you’re not gonna hurt me.”

“Okay.” Clint presses a kiss to the smooth skin of James’ neck, to the raised edge of the scarring, to the graceful curve of metal at his shoulder. The arm is a reminder that James has endured so much and yet he survived to be here right now with Clint. Clint can’t feel anything but a sense of wondrous gratitude for that.

James sighs, relaxing into the touch as Clint drags his hands down James body, learning the shape of him. He runs a thumb over James’ nipple and James makes a soft sound, pressing into the touch.

Clint smiles, ducking down to lave at the nub with the flat of his tongue.

“Clint,” James mutters, his whole torso flexing as he arches his back into the warm press of Clint’s mouth.

Clint doesn’t stop until the little nub is wet and pouty, blowing cool air over it and then thumbing it again as he moves to the other side, coaxing more of those soft little noises from James. He’s so fucking sensitive here, and Clint loves it.

James is grasping at him restlessly, his right hand on Clint’s ribs as his metal fingers twine gently in Clint’s hair.

Clint’s hand trails down. He takes a moment to just rub James through the fabric of his suit pants, enjoying the contrast of his hard cock under the soft linen.

“Clint,” James says again, his voice bordering on a whine, and Clint smiles against his skin.

“Gettin’ there,” he murmurs, nipping the sharp cut of James’ ribcage in rebuke as he drops to his knees. He teases James a little more by carefully unlacing his shoes, pulling them off along with his socks, setting them carefully aside. After a moment’s consideration he slides off his own socks and shoes before kneeling back between James’ feet, running his palms up the back of his calves, finding an additional ceramic knife in a sheath that he pulls off with a smirk.

“Fuck, you look good like that,” James breathes, avidly eyeing Clint’s shoulders and arms.

Clint grins, shamelessly flexing his biceps a little as he works James’ belt open, casting it carelessly aside before pulling down his trousers and boxer-briefs so he can finally get his hands and mouth on him. He’s got a nice cock, thick and pretty. Clint wastes no time, tonguing the bead of wetness pearled at the tip as James shudders and bucks.

“God. _Fuck,"_ James says wonderingly. Clint wraps his palms around those magnificent thighs and keeps looking up at him steadily through his lashes as he takes him deeper and deeper.

Christ, but Clint loves this, the weight of James’ cock against his tongue, the way he’s trying to hold himself back but can’t help the little shivers and hitches of his hips as Clint takes him all the way. When his nose is pressed deep into soft curls and warm skin he swallows, working the head of James’ cock against the back of his throat.

“Clint,” James says again, fingers tightening in Clint’s hair. The gentle tug sends a spike of pleasure through Clint and he moans around his mouthful.

James’ hips hitch again and Clint encourages him, grabbing a handful of his ass to urge him forward as he works his tongue against the shaft. He loses himself in it a little bit — the salty-warm taste of James, the weight of him in Clint’s mouth, the little twitches of his cock as Clint circles his tongue just so or works his throat just right.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” James breathes before much longer has passed. “I — you’re gonna make me come.”

Clint can’t help the low noise he makes at the thought of it even as he pulls off, swiping his forearm across his mouth.

“Jesus, I wanna see that so bad,” he pants, pressing his forehead against James’ hip. His whole body feels hot, his skin too tight. “But I want you to fuck me. If that’s something you want.”

James opens his mouth as if to say something, but then seems to hesitate, worrying his lower lip between his teeth. “I — I can go twice,” he finally says, voice so soft that Clint almost misses it.

“Huh?” Clint looks up, watching in fascination as a blush spreads pink across the bridge of James’ nose and the crest of his cheeks. “Really?”

“Maybe more,” James admits, still looking bashful.

The words send a pulse of heat through Clint’s belly, and he takes a moment just to groan against James’ hip. “You’re gonna kill me in the absolute best way,” he says plaintively, and then he’s diving back in, sucking James down deep and rough and filthy, rolling plump balls between his callused fingertips — using every trick he knows until James cries out softly, his whole body arching as he spills down Clint’s throat.

The noise of it — the feel of James shuddering to completion under Clint’s hands — it’s so fucking hot that Clint has to grip himself tight through his own trousers to keep from coming as he works James through it gently, coaxing out every last shudder before he pulls back, gulping in air. 

James’ head tilts back, thunking against the wall, his eyes silver crescents, shining like jewels under his lush eyelashes. He’s still breathing hard, petting blindly at Clint’s head.

“C’mere,” he growls after a moment, guiding Clint up with another tug to his hair and Clint follows pliantly, the gentle pressure sending a thrill down his spine.

“Look at you,” James says, his voice a little blurry, and Clint can’t help but imagine what he sees — Clint’s hair ruffled by James’ metal fingers, his eyes hazy, his mouth no doubt red and swollen from use. 

James’ metal fingers trail down Clint’s cheek and then trace the edge of his lower lip where it feels tender. Clint catches James’ index and middle finger lightly between his teeth before he sucks them deep in his mouth.

“Fuckin’ hell,” James breathes, pressing against Clint’s tongue a little, watching closely as he draws his fingers out a little only to push them in deeper. It makes Clint’s eyes flutter closed, makes him hum happily around the feel of them in his mouth — the cool metal and the slight ridging so unmistakeably _James_.

“You —” James says and then he’s surging forward, pulling his fingers out so he can capture Clint’s mouth, kissing him deep and hard. His hands sweep down to grasp the back of Clint’s thighs and then lift, and Clint gets with the program, wrapping his legs around James’ waist.

Clint was taller than six feet by the time he was a teenager. He’s never in his life had someone who could manhandle him in bed, and it’s quite the revelation to find that he really fucking _likes_ it. James holds his weight like it’s nothing, doing an interesting little shimmy before stepping out of the puddle of his clothing and striding toward the bed.

Every step rubs Clint’s clothed cock against James’ bare belly and Clint grinds up into it, suddenly desperate. 

James sets Clint on the bed and draws back a little, and Clint can’t help the whine that escapes him at the sudden loss of contact.

“Shhh…easy,” James says, smoothing a cool metal hand down Clint’s side. “What do we need?”

“I have lube in my arrow kit.” It’s still on the end table from where Clint was messing with the putty arrow last night. He twists to grab the tube, pressing it into James’ hand. “No condoms, but we both get a blood panel every quarter, and you got the serum anyway, so —”

James is still staring down at the tube in his hand, something in his expression making Clint’s words trail off, the sharp edge of his arousal retreating a little.

“Unless — we don’t hafta, we can do whatever —”

“You’ll show me how?” James interrupts, his voice low and intense.

“Yeah. If you want.”

“I _really_ fuckin’ want to,” James says, and Clint can’t doubt the conviction in his voice. “I just — I don’t know what I’m doin’ here. An’ I don’t want to hurt you.”

Clint relaxes a little. He can work with that. “It’s not that much different than with a girl, honestly. Just needs more lube, and —”

James’ eyes skitter away again, and Clint’s words stumble to a halt.

“Never got that far with a girl either,” James admits, that blush spreading back across his nose and cheeks. He absent-mindedly flicks the tube open and closed a few times and then shrugs, finally meeting Clint’s eyes again. “I knew the war was comin’, an’ I couldn’t risk gettin’ a girl in trouble. I saw from Stevie’s ma how hard it is to raise a kid on your own, an’ my ma and sisters needed my pay. Or my death benefit.”

Clint’s heart squeezes a little at that. 

“Hey,” he says softly. He wants to kiss James, and so he does, framing his face in his hands and kissing him with careful consideration before pulling back slowly. “You’re a good man, James Buchanan Barnes. And we can take this as slow as you want to.”

James pushes in closer, capturing Clint’s mouth again. In this, at least, he’s fully confident, kissing Clint deep and unhurried, languid strokes of his tongue mixed with teasing nips and bites. They kiss until Clint is breathless, the world seeming to turn golden and shimmery as it focuses down to nothing but James — the sweet musk of his skin and the bright scent of his rosemary mint shampoo, the muscles in his arms flexing as they brace his weight above Clint’s body, and the taste of his tongue, smoky with scotch and chocolate-sweet.

Clint doesn’t even realize the soft noises he’s making, the way he’s rolling his hips up, desperate for friction, until James soothes him again.

“Easy, sweetheart,” James says, his voice low and confident once again. “I’m gonna take care of you.”

He sits up a little, sliding his hand down Clint’s chest, bright eyes taking in his reaction as he scrapes through the patch of hair on Clint’s chest and then tweaks his nipples. Clint’s not usually so sensitive there, not like James seems to be, but he’s so wound up right now that even that small touch has him arching up, chasing the sensation.

James trails warm fingers down Clint’s ribs, and then works his trousers open, shoving them down enough to free the hard press of Clint’s cock against his boxer briefs.

“Oh, look at you sweetheart,” James croons, fingers trailing slowly up the shaft through the soft cotton. “Is that for me?”

Clint can only nod, watching raptly as James circles his thumb lazily through the damp patch Clint has made on the fabric. 

“So wet,” he says admiringly, and the words send a shock of heat through Clint’s belly, making him squirm in both pleasure and embarrassment.

Then James is pulling down the fabric, stripping both suit trousers and boxer-briefs away.

“Fucking hell,” he says, when Clint is fully bared to his gaze. “There’s nothin’ I don’t wanna do to you, sweetheart.”

Clint is stupid with lust, almost trembling with anticipation for whatever James is going to do next. “Please,” he says, his voice raspy. He doesn’t care what James does, as long as he does _something_.

James wraps his hand around Clint’s cock and slides it slowly upwards, as if testing out the feel. It makes Clint’s toes curl and he pulls in a shuddering breath, trying to keep it together.

“I thought about this,” James says meditatively, and _Christ_ , he’s gonna kill Clint before they even get to the fucking.

“Thought about this when we sat together on the couch. Wondered if you’d let me, if I asked —”

Clint is on _fire_ , the words as arousing as they are astonishing. He’d had no fucking _idea_.

James is just working Clint’s cock maddeningly slowly, not even trying to get him off, just coaxing more wetness from the tip, urging a few more of those shaky little noises Clint can’t quite suppress from his throat.

“Thought about this when you’d come down in the middle of the night, still half asleep, hair standin’ up everywhere and those damn raggedy sweatpants threatenin’ to fall off your hipbones with every step. Wondered if I could just crowd you up against the counter, drop to my knees right, there, an’ —”

“Fuck!” Clint grabs James’ wrist, stilling his hand. He squeezes his eyes shut and pants raggedly, grasping for control. Never in a million years would he have guessed that James would be a _talker_ , but every word is lighting Clint up on the inside, making his blood thrum.

When he finally gets his eyes open James is just watching him, looking a little uncertain again, and Clint can’t have that for a second.

“I can only go once, probably,” he manages. “And I wanna come on your cock.”

James closes his eyes at that, a shiver running through him. “Yeah. Fuck,” he breathes.

When he opens his eyes again his gaze is sharp, almost predatory. Clint feels caught in those silver eyes, pinned by the intensity of the pale irises and wide-blown pupils. “Show me,” James says, and Clint has to take a moment to just breathe, his hands near to shaking as he grabs the lube and coats the three middle fingers of James’ right hand until they’re glistening.

“Start with one. I want — but it’s been — I gotta go slow for now.” He’s having trouble organizing his words, but James just smiles.

“I got you,” he says, his voice a low, soothing rumble, as if he understands exactly what Clint needs. And maybe he _does_ , the pad of his index finger just circling teasingly until Clint is shivering, pushing up into the pressure with soft little huffing noises, trying to get him deeper.

When he finally sinks one finger into Clint it’s a slow glide, all delicious friction and Clint arches into it. Christ, but it’s been a long fucking time, and Clint had forgotten how this feels, the way his body welcomingly makes space for someone else.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” James breathes. His mouth is against Clint’s neck, hot breath and the light scrape of this teeth making Clint squirm as James pushes deeper, starting a slow heavy tempo in and out. “You feel so fuckin’ good.”

Clint can’t talk, can’t think, can’t do anything but push into it and cry out as the pad of James’ finger grazes right where he’s swollen and needy, sending a jolt of electricity up his spine.

“That’s the spot, huh?” James croons. He’s pushed himself up on one elbow now so he can see, those pale eyes flickering between Clint’s face and where his finger is disappearing into the tight clench of Clint’s body.

Clint nods frantically. “Gimme one more,” he bites out. “I need —”

Before he’s even finished saying it James is pushing back in with two thick fingers, making Clint twist into the stretch of it. He curls them, finding that spot again, this time grazing it with both fingertips, a one-two punch that makes Clint’s eyelids flutter.

“Jesus, James,” Clint chokes out. “You’re a fuckin’ natural.”

James just smiles, slow and easy. “You take it so sweet,” he says, teeth biting the plumpness of his lower lip as his eyes trail down again, as if drawn magnetically to where Clint is stretched around his knuckles. He sits up even more, moving until he’s kneeling between Clint’s spread legs. His rhythm never falters for a second, the slow and relentless push of his fingers making Clint’s breath stutter.

James’ metal palm presses against Clint’s thigh, spreading his legs even further apart until Clint is splayed wide, one thigh draped across each of James’ bent knees. He feels exposed, but in the best way — bared to James’ hot gaze as he trails one metal finger around Clint’s rim while his other hand continues to pump steadily into Clint’s body.

“Fuckin’ _gorgeous_ ,” he says, and Clint chokes out a disbelieving noise. _James_ is the gorgeous one, cock heavy again between his legs where he’s straddled by Clint’s thighs, a pretty pink flush spreading from his cheeks all the way down to his chest.

“One more — ‘n then —” Clint says, and James hums his assent, adding more lube as he works a third finger in alongside the others. It’s a little cold and the contrast with James’ hot fingers makes Clint shudder, his whole body clenching around the new width.

James is watching again, his eyelashes fanned out dark against the tint of color on his cheeks. “So fuckin’ tight,” he wonders softly. “I can’t believe —” He presses in a little deeper, forcing an open-mouthed gasp from Clint’s lips. “Clint —”

“I need —” Clint’s hands grasp, trying to pull James closer, but he’s immovable. “It’s enough. Get in me now. I need to feel you.”

“Shhh...okay, sweetheart,” James soothes. “I’m gonna —” He slicks himself up, eyes closing for a brief moment at the feel of his own hand. Then he’s leaning closer, crowding into Clint. Heat radiates off of him and Clint can’t help but arch up into it. James presses closer, his fever-hot body and the chafe of his chest hair sparking pleasure across Clint’s sensitized skin as he positions himself. Finally they’re pressed together from belly to chest, James braced above Clint.

“Ready, sweetheart?” he asks, the confidence in his voice betrayed by the slight trembling in his arms, and Clint nods frantically. 

And then the fat head of James’ cock is pressing against him, stretching him wide. It feels almost impossible for a second and then the tight clench of Clint’s body gives way, letting him in.

“Fuck. _Darlin’_ — feel so good,” James mutters as he works his way inexorably inside with soft little nudges of his hips.

“I — _ah_ —” Clint doesn’t even know what he’s trying to say. He’s so full his eyes sting with it. Then James grinds forward that last inch and Clint sighs, his body melting as it yields to the thick press of James’ cock. 

“Just —” he says, holding James in place with hands spread on his lower back, and James nods. 

“You tell me when you’re ready, sweetheart,” he says. He leans down, biting the curve of Clint’s jaw, and the change in angle pushes a soft noise from Clint’s lips. Suddenly it’s not enough, he needs even more.

“I want —” he starts, hips stirring under James’, and that’s all he needs to say. James draws back and then pushes in again with a wordless rumble. Clint whines at the slow drag of James’ cock, all velvety heat and delicious friction.

“Good, yeah?” James asks and Clint nods again, any words he could possibly muster stolen by the next deep thrust.

James hums in acknowledgement, the low sound resonating down Clint’s spine.

Clint grabs blindly, hands clenching on James’ broad shoulders and then sliding down his back, wordlessly urging him on. 

James’ pace remains agonizingly slow, though, a deep and unyielding rhythm that sends jolts of liquid pleasure up Clint’s spine with every heavy thrust. He feels like he’s burning up, surrounded by the feel of James, the intoxicating scent of him, the little words of praise and encouragement that James doesn’t even seem to realize he’s murmuring into Clint’s sweat-slick skin.

James leans down, biting at Clint’s mouth, lapping at the beads of sweat gathering in the hollow of his throat. Then he kisses him again, his tongue fucking Clint’s mouth just as deep and filthy and slow as his cock is fucking Clint full, and it’s right on the edge of too much — Clint has to break away, with a breathless gasp that turns to a whine as James surges forward again.

“Faster,” Clint pants out. He feels overwhelmed, hectic. He grabs at James’ ass, pulling him even harder into the next thrust, flexing his thighs as he jolts up to meet him, and James grunts his surprise.

“You got it, sweetheart,” he says, his voice hoarse. He adjusts his arms, bracing himself higher, and then he’s fucking Clint _hard_ , back arching into it, the graceful sweep of his spine as sweet under Clint’s hands as his favorite recurve.

James’ muscles ripple against Clint’s callused palms and it’s all Clint can do to hang on, little hiccuping breaths forced from his throat as he rolls his hips up into every thrust. The sparks of pleasure are coming one on top of each other now, building to one continuous firework that feels like it can barely be contained by his skin. The bed rattles, and Clint feels like he too is shaking apart, pleasure spiraling tighter and tighter in his belly with every stroke of James’ cock.

“Fuck,” James mutters, and Clint feels the tremor in his arms, the hot throb of his cock growing impossibly harder inside him. _“Fuck."_

He drops his head, pressing his forehead to Clint’s shoulder. “Touch yourself, sweetheart,” he says, almost desperately. “I wanna see you come for me.”

And Clint is helpless to do anything but obey, fingers wrapping tight around his cock, the first touch making his whole body jerk like a live wire. James’ hands wrap around his shoulders, keeping him grounded, holding him pinned between that hard cock inside him and the grip of his own fist. 

“That’s it, sweetheart,” James urges. “Give it to me.” It only takes a few strokes and then everything seems to draw tight and Clint is coming, a soft punched-out noise escaping him as he spills across his stomach and over his hand, shuddering through waves of pleasure only intensified by the way James relentlessly fucks him through it.

He’s right on the edge of oversensitive when James grinds deep one more time and cries out, his whole body shaking in Clint’s arms, breath hitching wetly against Clint’s skin.

Clint just barely registers James’ weight slumping heavy against him and then he’s drifting, content and floaty for he doesn’t even know how long.

He might even doze a little, coming back to awareness only when James slips free of his body, leaving a sensation of wetness and emptiness that makes Clint squirm. He makes a noise of protest as James rolls off the bed, but before he can even force his eyes open James is back, the edge of the bed dipping under his weight as he tenderly wipes down Clint’s belly and between his thighs with a warm washcloth.

He lifts Clint’s hand, carefully wiping down his palm and every long finger, and Clint can’t help the happy hum that escapes him, the way he basks in this attention. He feels James’ thumbs wiping underneath his eyes, chasing away the remnants of tears, and he turns his head a little to clumsily kiss whatever part of James’ hand he can reach. 

Then James is crawling back into bed, pulling him close, wrapping his big body around Clint until he’s held tightly between warm skin and cooler metal. Clint feels James’ gentle touch on one of his aids and he nods, tilting his head so James can remove them one at a time and set them aside. He’s already half asleep when he feels the press of lips to the back of his neck. He feels the rumble in James’ chest against his back, but before he can even wonder what he said he drifts into sleep.

* * *

They wake up when the sky is just barely tinged with dawn light. Clint has turned at some point — their legs are tangled together, their arms around each other. He doesn’t even have to open his eyes to know that James is watching him.

“That’s creepy, y’know,” he teases, but he can’t even hear his own voice clearly, and if James answers back he can’t hear it. He feels a soft touch on his face, James’ thumb sweeping over his cheekbone again, and he can’t help but smile into it.

He pries his eyes open to find James smiling also, leaning in. His pupils are dark, his eyes heavy-lidded. His lips are still kiss-swollen, wet and pink in the velvet-soft dark of his beard. Clint sways closer and their lips meet, slow and sleepy.

Clint lets himself drift a little, enjoying the hazy moment between fully awake and fully asleep. Their hands wander over each other’s bodies as they trade lazy voluptuous kisses, letting their arousal build slowly. Time seems to blur, lost in the feel of their limbs sprawled together, the rasp of body hair and the slow exploration of fingertips. Clint still feels dazed, his responses laggy, but it doesn’t matter in the least in this warm little cocoon of intimacy between them. He’s melting, lulled by the luscious combination of sleep and sex, feeling like he could tip over from one into the other at any moment. 

Then James rolls his hips just right, sending a warm rush of pleasure up Clint’s spine. They grind together, slow and lazy, for long moments. When Clint can’t wait any longer he reaches down, raising his eyebrows in inquiry and waiting for James’ nod before he takes them both in hand. James’ hand closes around his, fingers entwined, and they both rock into it, slow and easy and toe-curlingly good.

He can tell he’s making noises — can feel them in his throat — and from the rumbling of James’ chest against his he is too, but there’s something right about doing this in the swooshy silence of his uncorrected hearing. It makes everything feel muffled and safe, focuses his attention only on James — his warm skin and prickly beard, the soft puff of his breath and the delicious sleep-warm scent of him.

When Clint comes it blooms slow and syrupy, molten waves of honey-thick pleasure starting at the base of his spine and unspooling softly through his whole body until he spills over their linked fingers in deep, shivering pulses. 

When he’s caught his breath again he wraps his slick fingers around James’ rigid cock alone, flexing his bicep to brace his hand so that James can seek his own pleasure. James presses his mouth hard into Clint’s collarbone, nipping and sucking, rutting into Clint’s hand, hot and dark and needy. When he comes it’s with a rumble Clint can feel against his own chest, the hard roll of his hips turning into frantic little hitches as he shudders into Clint’s hand, the rush of his breath warm and damp against the hollow of Clint's neck.

Clint is already half-asleep again, lazily bringing his fingers to his mouth to lick. He hears James say something else but he’s feeling too languid and sated to even open his eyes. James’ tongue joins his, licking up his long fingers and at the sensitive webbing between them, lapping over his palm. Then James is kissing him again, slow and deep, and then soft and tender, until between one press of lips and the next they both slide back into sleep.

* * *

The next time Clint wakes, the sun is high in the sky and he can hear James in the bathroom. He checks the time, and realizes they probably just have time to shower before the brunch event. He puts his aids in and finds some boxers, stepping into them before making his way toward the open bathroom door.

James is rinsing his mouth in the sink when Clint comes into the bathroom to brush his own teeth. And Clint is so enthralled by the view of James bending over, his ass fucking _spectacular_ in those soft sleep pants, that it takes a long moment before he catches a glimpse of his own reflection. When he does he can’t help the soft breath of surprise that huffs out of him. He looks fucking _wrecked,_ his lips red and swollen, his face and neck pinked up with beard burn, the marks of James’ mouth vivid on his tanned and freckled skin.

He’s tracing one of the many bright smudges on his neck when he feels James’ eyes on him.

“I’m sorry,” James says, catching his lower lip between his teeth, eyes traveling over the trail of love bites littered down Clint’s neck and chest. “I shouldn’ta done that without asking.”

“I don’t mind ‘em,” Clint says. He presses his thumb against one, and the soft little involuntary noise he makes, the way his pupils blow wide in the mirror, probably betrays what an understatement that is.

He snatches his hand away and looks down, hiding his eyes from James’ appraising gaze as his cheeks flush hot. He grabs his toothbrush, applying toothpaste with more careful attention than the task probably warrants, as he tries to think this through. The marks are way too high on his neck to cover with any sort of clothing. He could potentially borrow some makeup from Nat, but...

“It’s just...I can skip brunch if you want,” he says, gesturing vaguely at his reflection with the toothbrush. “Head back to the Tower an' lay low for a few days.” 

“Why —” James starts, and then his words cut off. Clint can’t help it — his eyes jump up to meet James’ in the mirror. His own gaze looks wide and uncertain, but in James’ eyes he reads nothing but understanding. James steps up behind Clint, holding his gaze in the mirror, as he places a kiss on the crest of Clint’s shoulder.

“Sweetheart, I’d take out a billboard if I could,” he says, and Clint smiles as he recognizes his own words from the night they arrived. Whatever this is between them, James is not ashamed of it, and that makes some knot of anxiety Clint hadn’t even realized he was holding in his chest unravel. 

James smiles back, slow and so heart-stoppingly sweet it makes Clint’s stomach flip.

“Your smile is like sunshine, sweetheart,” James teases, still watching in the mirror as he pulls Clint back against his body, hands moving over his chest. And Clint sees it in the mirror, the way he’s smiling too-wide and obvious. He tries to suppress it but he can’t, not with James looking at him like that, his expression all soft and happy too.

“You’re gonna make us late for brunch,” Clint observes as James turns him around, crowding him up against the counter to taste that smile. “We —” He can’t help but kiss back, the feel of James’ lips under his something that he’ll never grow tired of. 

James lifts him up so he’s sitting on the cold marble, standing close between his thighs so he can rub up against Clint, letting him feel the way his cock is fattening up in his sleep pants. 

Clint is half-hard too, helpless to resist the feel of James against his body, but he tries again valiantly. “We barely have time to shower as it is.”

“Worth it,” James mutters against Clint’s neck, hands sliding down his back to his ass, holding him in place as he grinds up against him a little.

Clint captures James’ mouth again, kissing him deep and slow, before pulling back with a little nip to James’ lower lip. “Or,” he suggests, “We could take a shower together. More efficient.”

James smiles, and Clint can’t help but kiss the soft curve of his mouth again. 

“Sweetheart,” James says, his voice a low rumble. “Did I ever tell you that you have the _best_ ideas?”


End file.
